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RIDER O’ THE STARS 







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RIDER O’ THE STARS 


A Western Story 


BY 

R. J. HORTON 



CHELSEA HOUSE 


79 Seventh Avenue 




New York City 






Copyright, 1924 
By CHELSEA HOUSE 


J 


Rider o’ the Stars 



(Printed in the United States of America) 

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign 
languages, including the Scandinavian. 

MAR 18 ’24 ^ 

©C1A777583 L' 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Check .n 

II. A New Hand.18 

III. “Some Job !”.28 

IV. Black Butte *.34 

V. The Insult.46 

VI. Night Magic.58 

VII. In the Brakes.69 

VIII. The Hermit ........ 79 

IX. Business.88 

X. Across the Line .97 

XI. Missing.104 

XII. Mystery.114 

XIII. “Don't Say It!” ....... 123 

XIV. “In the Shadow”.129 

XV. An Ultimatum.139 

XVI. “I Saw Him!”.148 

XVII. Night Riders.158 

XVIII. Rustlers. 167 

XIX. The Souvenir.178 





















CONTENTS 


CHAPTEH PAGE 

XX. “Don't Hurt Him!” .187 

XXI. Esther Accuses. 199 

XXII. At the Dance. 206 

XXIII. Startling News. 217 

XXIV. Two Women. 225 

XXV. On the North Range. 234 

XXVI. The Attack. 239 

XXVII. The Worth of a Rope. 248 

XXVIII. Under the Cottonwood .... 236 

XXIX. The Cache. 267 

XXX. The Killer. 278 

XXXI. Not on the Program. 288 

XXXII. The Dawn. 300 













RIDER O’ THE STARS 

CHAPTER I 

CHECK 

OPRING had wrought her miracle in the open 
^ country. The far-flung prairies were a sea of 
living green. In the west the outlines of a tower¬ 
ing mountain range were limned in purple against 
a sky of clearest blue. To southward a fringe 
of stately cottonwoods marked the course of a 
river. Northward and eastward the limits of the 
plain were lost in the haze on the horizon’s rim. 

A rider broke through the timber screen of the 
brakes along the river, cantered up a long, gentle 
rise to the bench land above the bottoms, and turned 
westward. His bay gelding negotiated the pathless, 
open range at a tireless lope, while his master 
whistled or hummed simple melodies and ditties of 
the cow camps, with occasional snatches of popular 
airs. 

Evidently horse and rider were keenly enjoying 
the crisp morning air and the mounting warmth. 

The man lounged in the saddle with an awkward 
grace and rode with the deceiving abandon of an 
expert horseman. He was lean and rather tall, with 
clean-cut features and a skin which, though tanned 
almost to the color of horsehide, was smooth and 
clear. His gray eyes, filled with the sparkle and 
luster and keen alertness of youth, were half closed, 


12 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


as he gazed at the vast panorama of mountain plain, 
and sky about him. 

His leather chaps, leather cuffs, the narrow leather 
band about his broad-brimmed hat, even the black 
holster strapped to his right thigh, were embellished 
with dull-silver ornaments. This penchant for sim¬ 
ple decoration also found expression in his bridle 
and saddle, and the spurs on his polished, high- 
heeled riding boots were of silver, too. An ex¬ 
pensive, but not obtrusive, outfit, which any man 
in the cow country would have conceded—and ad¬ 
mired. 

As he sped westward with the sun at his back, 
the rider’s attention became focused on the river 
bottoms. Four men were working on a bunch of cat¬ 
tle which appeared to be beef steers. Two of the 
men were riding on the sides near the rear of the 
herd, which was grazing eastward, and two others 
were riding “on point” on either side of the cattle 
up ahead. 

Urged by the riders behind, the herd gradually 
began to move faster; and with the increased impetus 
they began to converge and string out until the cattle 
ceased grazing altogether and moved forward, four 
or five abreast. The rider on the bench reined in 
his mount and watched the operation with indubitable 
interest. The two men riding point, almost directly 
below him now, were gesticulating to the other pair 
driving the cattle. 

“Coming too fast for ’em,” the lone rider grinned 
to himself. “Gettin’ away from ’em, too.” 

As the long line of steers plunged between the 


CHECK 


13 


two men riding below him, he now and then tied a 
loose knot in one of his reins. He could hear 
the men shouting loudly, saw the two who were 
driving the herd cease their efforts and try to slow 
up the cattle, which now were running. 

Once more his gaze flashed to a point between 
the two riders below, and, as he picked out a big 
shorthorn, he tied another knot in his bridle rein. 
The cattle now had closed up and were moving 
between the pair below, almost in a solid mass. 
The two riders tried in vain to slow them and gave 
it up, as the last of the herd thundered on eastward. 

“And thirteen,” said the rider on the bench, aloud, 
as the space between the two men below became clear. 
Then he slowly untied the five knots in his bridle rein. 
He looked rapidly about and saw a steep trail lead¬ 
ing to the bottoms, from a point on the bench 
some distance behind him. He whirled his horse 
and, riding back, turned into the trail and in a 
short time gained the bottom land. 

He came out on the smooth, grassy surface flank¬ 
ing the river brakes at a point where the cattle 
were milling after their run. A big, wild-eyed steer, 
which he suspected should have been shipped two 
seasons before, broke from the bunch and came 
plunging toward him. 

Spurring his horse ahead, he secured the rope 
which hung on the right of his saddle horn. The 
maddened steer came on, and the rider, swerving 
his horse to the left, sent the rope with its wide 
loop shooting over his left shoulder and tripped 
the steer with the difficult back throw. He jerked 


14 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


the rope free and rode on, as the steer scrambled 
to its feet and stood looking after him uncertainly, 
before turning and trotting back to the herd. 

As the lone rider approached the quartet which 
had been working with the cattle, he saw they were 
watching him. 

“Had an audience that time, ‘Saturn,’ ” he said 
aloud to the horse. The animal pricked up his ears 
at the sound of the voice. It was as if he under¬ 
stood the words were being addressed to him, and 
he quickened his gait at the sound of his name. The 
rider noted that one of the four men, a large man 
who sat his horse heavily, evidently was in charge. 
Two of the others were plainly cow-punchers, and the 
fourth was a young fellow, barely more than a boy. 

“Nice bit of ropin’,” the big man commented, as 
he rode up. 

“Have to keep in practice,” replied the newcomer 
jauntily. “How’d you tally?” 

The big man frowned and surveyed him sharply 
from under black, bushy brows. 

“I got five hun’erd an’ thirteen,” continued the 
new arrival. “An’ I’ll bet my saddle that count’ll 
stand straight up for the bunch.” 

“Where’d you count ’em ?” demanded the big 
man, surprised. 

“From the bench,” replied the other. “They came 
pretty fast, an’ I lost ’em once, but I picked ’em 
back up, when that locoed steer came after me.” 

“Spying,” said the youth, who was eying him 
with apparent suspicion. 

“Why so?” asked the stranger quickly. “Just 


CHECK 


15 

ridin’ along, saw you was goin’ to count the herd, 
rode down to see if you had ’em right.” 

“You’re about seventeen off,” said the youth scorn¬ 
fully. 

“No, he’s not,” declared the big man in a booming 
voice. “That’s what I counted last night.” 

“Check!” sang the man of the silver ornaments. 
“I’ll gamble we’ve got the figures on that herd.” 

The big man again was subjecting him to a search¬ 
ing scrutiny. “Cow hand?” he inquired. 

“Occasionally, when I’m working,” was the merry 
rejoinder. 

“Then I take it you’re not working,” said the 
big man, scowling. “It’s gettin’ pretty late in the 
season for a man to be ridin’ the line.” 

“Maybe he’s lookin’ for strays,” the youth inter¬ 
jected. 

The stranger laughed. “You got some queer 
ideas, son,” he observed, sobering. 

The youth’s face flamed at the patronizing tone. 
“I didn’t say what kind of strays,” he retorted hotly. 

“Fred, keep still,” said the big man. “What’s 
your name?” he demanded, turning to the man in 
the saddle before him. 

“My name’s Dane,” was the smiling reply. 

“Never heard of any punchers by that name around 
here,” said the big man, frowning. “Where from?” 

Dane waved a hand in a gesture which included 
the whole southeastern horizon, and the rays of the 
morning sun gleaming on the silver ornamentations 
of his gauntlet were no brighter than the flash of his 
smile. 


i6 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“From down yonder/’ he answered, a bit grimly. 
And the look he directed at his interrogator caused 
the latter to hesitate before he put his next question. 

“Are you as handy with your gun as you are at 
ropin’ cattle,” he asked finally. 

“I don’t reckon that’s what you wanted to ask 
me,” said Dane cheerfully, as he built a brown-paper 
cigarette. “I figure you was wantin’ to ask me if I 
was packin’ a copper iron. I’ll stand a frisk.” 
Again the smile, and then: 

“I invented ropes,” he grinned; “an’ I perfected 
guns!” 

A glimmer of a smile in the big man’s eyes was 
quickly overshadowed by a troubled look. 

“Maybe you’ve got a spare match, mister-” 

Dane put the question with his eyes. 

“My name’s Hughes,” said the big man, nettled, 
as he handed over a match. “You’re on my ranch, 
the Diamond H. An’ I’d kind of like to know 
just what you’re doin’ here.” 

“Helpin’ to count the cattle,” retorted Dane readily. 
“An’ I didn’t know I was on your ranch, although 
it seems to me I’ve heard of your brand somewhere.” 

“Where’d you say you’d worked?” asked Hughes. 

Dane lifted his brows. “I don’t recollect mention¬ 
ing that,” he drawled. “But I ain’t worked north 
of the river, nor very close to it, if that’s what you’re 
drivin’ at.” 

The rancher scowled, frankly puzzled. 

“He means he ain’t had no regular address,” the 
youth, Fred, put in. 



CHECK 


1 7 

“Lookin' for work?" queried the ranch owner, 
paying no attention to the young man’s remark. 

“That depends," was the laconic reply. “There’s 
jobs I wouldn’t touch at a hun’erd a month, an’ 
there’s others I’d take for nothin’. If you’re askin’ 
if I’m lookin’ for a chance to herd cows, I’ll say 
I ain’t right particular." 

Hughes grunted in disgust. Then he glanced 
quickly at the lithe form of the newcomer, his ex¬ 
cellent horse, the worn leather chaps with their silver, 
the black holster, and the black butt of the gun pro¬ 
truding from it, and last at the cool, gray eyes of 
the man himself. 

“I take it you’re observing," he remarked casually. 

“I reckon I am," replied Dane, as he snapped the 
match into flame with a thumb nail. 

Hughes turned to the two cow-punchers. “Ease 
the herd east away from the line. An’ stay with ’em." 

“We’re goin’ in to the ranch," he said to Dane, 
as the two punchers rode away. “This is my son, 
Fred. You’d better come along in with us." 

“Sure," agreed Dane, as he touched the bay with 
his steel. “An’ I’m wonderin’ if you noticed there 
was a couple of riders out west there by a big 
cottonwood, watchin’ your operations this mornin’.’’ 

“I saw ’em," said Hughes, his face darkening. 

Dane whistled softly, as they rode eastward in 
the bottoms; he passed the place where he had 
emerged from the brakes at dawn and headed for 
a patch of brighter green, some miles distant, where 
a windbreak of tall cottonwoods protected the fields 
and buildings of the Diamond H. 


CHAPTER II 


A NEW HAND 

A S they rode in silence, Dane had an opportunity 
to observe Fred Hughes. He doubted if the 
youth had attained his majority, and he fixed his 
age at about twenty. He was very light, having 
one of those skins which burn rather than tan. His 
blue eyes were clear enough, but Dane imagined he 
detected a depth to them which might indicate that 
the young man had a habit of serious thinking; 
that, or he had something on his mind. Plainly 
he was suspicious of Dane. 

The elder Hughes was dark, with a swarthy com¬ 
plexion which was almost coarse. He had the large 
build, the open manner, and all the characteristics 
which ordinarily are associated with the successful 
stockman. Dane knew instinctively that this man 
knew his business. 

All during the ride toward the ranch Hughes 
failed to speak. He glanced at Dane now and then 
appraisingly, Dane thought, but for the most part 
he stared moodily ahead. They left the bottom for 
the bench land to take a short cut where there was a 
big bend in the river. Dane drew a sharp breath, 
as they skirted the edge of the bench where the 
river once more turned north to straighten out again 
on its eastern course. Below them lay the ranch 
proper. There was a line of cottonwoods from the 


A NEW HAND 


19 


bluff, where the bench was cut off to the river. 
East of these trees was a fifty-acre hay field, and 
beyond were more trees, and then the ranch build¬ 
ings, clustered in the shelter of the high bench. 

The ranch house was a large, rambling affair to 
which numerous additions evidently had been built. 
There were two large barns, a huge hay shed, and 
a network of corrals. There was a large bunk 
house and cook shack, a blacksmith shop, and many 
smaller outbuildings. Altogether it was mute evi¬ 
dence of the fact that the Diamond H was an im¬ 
portant property, where stock raising was carried on 
on a big scale. They rode down a wide trail past 
the corrals and sheds to one of the barns. Here 
they dismounted. 

“You can put your horse up in a stall,” said 
Hughes to Dane. 

As he was unsaddling, Dane noticed that Hughes 
looked the big bay over for brands. But the horse 
bore no iron. 

“You’ll probably want to drop in at the bunk 
house an’ slick up a bit,” Hughes told him, when 
the horses had been attended to. “Come over to the 
house to dinner when you hear the bell. I’ll be on 
the front porch.” 

“Bunk house’ll suit me all right for grub,” Dane 
demurred, “if it’s all right with you.” 

“I’d rather you’d eat at the house to-day,” said 
Hughes gruffly. “I’ve got my reasons.” 

Dane nodded. 

On the way to the bunk house he smiled to 
himself. He found the wash bench and soon was 


20 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


removing the coating of dust from his face and 
hands. Then, after a survey in the cracked mirror, 
which hung over the bench, he returned to the barn 
and secured his shaving outfit in the slicker pack on 
the back of his saddle. He went back to the wash 
bench and shaved. He combed his hair carefully 
until it shone with a dull luster of bronze. 

“Goin’ to a party?” 

Dane swung on his heel at the words and beheld 
an old man who evidently had been watching him 
from the doorway of the bunk house. 

Dane scowled for reply, and the old man’s face 
wrinkled into a grin. He shuffled toward Dane. 

“My name’s Marty,” he volunteered with a welcom¬ 
ing light in his faded blue eyes. “They call me Old 
Marty, but I ain’t as old as a lot of ’em think.” 

He held out a hand, and Dane grasped it. No 
sooner had he done so than he looked quickly down 
at it. Instinctively he glanced at the old man’s 
other hand. Both hands were mere pads, with the 
thumbs and fingers missing. 

“Frozen off ten years ago when I was drivin’ 
Esther into town, time she was sick,” said the old 
man rather proudly. “Ain’t hardly done a tap of 
work since, but I’ll allers have a home with Gordon 
Hughes. You goin’ up to the house to dinner?” 

Dane nodded, retaining his grip on Old Marty’s 
stump of a hand. 

“I ’spected so the way you was fixin’ up,” grinned 
Marty. “I reckon you’re goin’ to work here, eh?” 

“Nothin’ been said about it yet,” Dane replied. 

“Well, I reckon you will,” declared the old man, 



A NEW HAND 21 

bobbing his head energetically. 4 ‘Gordon needs good 
men right now.” 

Dane passed over the implied compliment, although 
there was nothing in Old Marty’s tone to indicate 
he meant it as such. 

“Why does he need good men?” he asked. 

“Ain’t for me to say. He’ll tell you, if he ain’t 
told you already. Want to put them there shavin’ 
things away? I’ll show you where to put ’em in 
the bunk house. I kind of look after the bunk 
house an’ keep things straight. Anything you leave 
in the bunk house is safe, with me lookin’ after it. 
Come along.” 

Dane picked up his belongings and followed Old 
Marty into the bunk house, where the old man placed 
the shaving outfit on a shelf in a box nailed to the 
wall. 

“They’ll be there when you want ’em,” he de¬ 
clared with a convincing bob of his white head. 
“You a stranger round here?” 

“I reckon I am,” Dane confessed, somewhat 
amused at Marty’s fussiness and eager interest. 

“Best range west of the Rockies an’ north of the 
Missouri,” said Marty, who couldn’t keep his eyes 
off the newcomer. “Man, you shore look like you 
could ride. I used to be one of the best riders 
in this country. An’ I bet you can shoot, too. An’ 
you ain’t very old—you’re young. I wish I was 
young.” There was a wistful look in the eyes of 
washed-out blue. “I used to shoot, too. Once 
I-” 

He was interrupted by the dinner bell. 



22 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“There ye be; hurry up now! An’, boy”—he 
regarded Dane with fatherly regard—“you’ll see 
a girl up at the house. That’s all right—wrinkle yore 
nose. You’ll come out scratching yore haid!” 

Dane hastened toward the front porch of the 
big house, where he found Gordon Hughes awaiting 
him. The rancher led the way into the long, cool 
dining room. Dane first was introduced to Mrs. 
Hughes, a small woman whose hair, though plentiful 
and wavy, was nearly snow white. Her face re¬ 
tained signs of a wonderful beauty which had been 
hers in youth. Another elderly lady, a Mrs. Dawes, 
was introduced as Mrs. Hughes’ sister. Fred Hughes 
entered, accompanied by a girl, and Dane’s eyes 
flickered, as he looked at her. 

“Dane, this is my daughter, Esther,” Gordon 
Hughes was saying. 

Dane bowed, and because he looked quickly away 
he failed to see that she had stepped forward to 
hold out her hand. 

The six of them sat down at table, as a China¬ 
man entered with several dishes. 

“What’s this, mutton to-day, Lee?” said Gordon 
Hughes in a booming tone, pretending to glare 
fiercely at the Chinaman. “We’re runnin’ a cattle 
ranch, Lee.” 

“Allee samee mlutton glo glood for chlange,” 
grinned the Chinese. 

“Sam’s name isn’t Lee any more than mine is,” 
smiled Mrs. Hughes in an aside to Dane. “Gordon 
thinks every Chinaman should be called Lee.” 


A NEW HAND 


23 


“Good enough name for ’em,” Hughes asserted. 

Esther Hughes smiled at Dane. Evidently she 
felt a certain tolerance toward her father’s views. 

Dane observed her by means of surreptitious 
glances. She was almost directly an opposite to her 
brother, who plainly took after his mother. The 
girl was dark, with dark eyes and hair, and her 
features were sufficiently irregular to be most at¬ 
tractive. Indeed, Dane searched his memory for a 
recollection of any other girl he had ever seen who 
looked more attractive. It wasn’t that Esther Hughes 

was beautiful, it was- Dane gave it up. Perhaps 

it was her eyes; or it might be something in her 
personality. But there was an unmistakable appeal 
and charm about her. 

“Are you going to stay with us long, Mr. Dane?” 
she asked when they had been served. 

“Dane’s a new hand,” Gordon Hughes put in. 

“Oh, I didn’t know,” she said quickly, as her 
brother shot a frowning glance at his father. 

“Maybe you’re to be the new foreman,” she 
speculated with a smile. 

She couldn’t understand his presence in the ranch- 
house dining room unless he was to have a position 
of importance. It was not customary for ordinary 
hired hands to eat in the house. 

“I didn’t know I’d been taken on till just now,” 
Dane returned with a side glance at Hughes, ignoring 
her reference to the possibility of his being made 
foreman. 

So Gordon Hughes didn’t have a foreman. He 



24 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

directed a questioning look at the rancher, who read 
his thoughts. 

“Eve been runnin’ things myself,” said Hughes. 
“An’ about time,” he added with a scowl. 

“Did you find the cattle all right, Gordon?” his 
wife asked. 

“Found five hundred an’ thirteen of the short¬ 
horns all right,” growled the rancher. “I don’t 
know how the seventy-odd others of the bunch are, 
for I don’t know where they’re at.” 

“And we probably never will know till we clean 
up Bunker an’ his gang,” said Fred. 

His father looked at him sharply. 

“Fred, you mustn’t jump to conclusions,” his 
mother reproved. 

“Maybe the boy’s right,” said Gordon Hughes. 
“I’m beginning to think something besides the 
boundary is wrong on the west side.” 

His tone caused his wife to look at him ap¬ 
prehensively. 

“We don’t want any more trouble with them 
than we can help,” she said. 

“An’ if we can’t help ourselves, what then?” de¬ 
manded the rancher. “Tod Wendell was shot at 
this morning.” 

His wife looked troubled. “You can’t always 
tell who is to blame when a thing like that happens,” 
she said. 

“But we can tell who’s to blame when they order 
our men out of Black Butte at the point of a gun,” 
stormed Hughes. “I’ve tried to be peaceful enough, 


A NEW HAND 


25 


but, by thunder, if Williams is goin’ to use guns, 
I’m goin’ to start usin’ guns, too!” He brought 
his fist down on the table. 

Dane saw Esther Hughes looking at him, and he 
glanced at her again, as he detected a new light 
in her eyes. She was staring at him; and it seemed 
to him that there was disappointment in her look 
as well as awakened curiosity. Yes, she was staring 
at him curiously, possibly in disapproval. 

“Do you believe in guns, Mr. Dane?” she asked 
suddenly. 

The question startled him. He laid down his 
knife hastily and reached for his coffee cup. 

“All men of the range believe in guns at times,” 
said Gordon Hughes sternly. 

“Gordon, what are you thinking of?” Mrs. Hughes 
asked in an anxious voice. 

“I’m thinking that I’ve built this ranch an’ am 
responsible for it,” replied the rancher grimly. “An’ 
I don’t intend to let any outfit take it away from 
me, or stop my runnin’ it, as I see fit. An’ from 
now on I don’t want any talk at this table about 
the affairs of the ranch. An’ I don’t want you 
womenfolks meddling or worrying. You run the 
house, an’ we’ll run the cattle.” 

It was plain from the look on Mrs. Hughes’ face 
that something which she had feared had come to 
pass. Dane suspected that when Gordon Hughes 
put his foot down he meant business. And, whatever 
was in the wind now, it was plain he was thoroughly 
in earnest. 


26 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


There was no further conversation concerning the 
ranch. Hughes’ declaration had its effect, if he 
desired the topic dismissed. The rancher spoke 
casually of stock and feed, but Dane could readily 
perceive that his mind wasn’t on his subject, and 
Dane didn’t take the trouble to vouchsafe any com¬ 
ments. Esther didn’t speak to him again, although 
he sensed that she was studying him furtively. 

Fred was almost morose, and again Dane was 
inclined to believe that the youth had something on 
his mind, a secret, perhaps, which was not shared 
by the rest of the family. 

Old Marty had hinted in the bunk house that 
Gordon Hughes needed good men. Now at the table 
there was talk of cattle missing and of gun play. 
Very likely Hughes had forbidden further discussion 
of it because he didn’t want the women to be worry¬ 
ing themselves in the matter. It was all too evident 
that everything was not exactly as it should be on 
the Diamond H. 

After dinner Gordon Hughes led the way to the 
porch. 

“Go down to the bunk house, an’ I’ll slip down 
there pretty quick for a talk with you,” said the 
rancher. 

Again Dane merely nodded and smiled. He was 
taking things as they came, and it appeared that they 
were coming fast. 

“Marty,” he said, as he entered the bunk house, 
“it looks as if I’d been hired.” 

“Shore, I knew it,” the old man replied and 
looked delighted. 


A NEW HAND 


27 


Dane walked to the open window and stood look¬ 
ing out at the weaving branches of the cottonwoods 
about the house. Try as he would, he could not 
help but ponder over the queer look he had seen 
in Esther Hughes’ eyes at the dinner table. 


CHAPTER III 


“some job !” 

D ESPITE Gordon Hughes' promise to meet Dane 
at the bunk house in a short time, it was nearly 
two hours before he came walking briskly from the 
direction of the corrals. Old Marty had gone out 
and left Dane alone. There were few men at the 
ranch, and those few, the old man had said, would 
not be in until supper time. Consequently, when 
Hughes arrived, he and Dane sat down to talk 
in the bunk house without fear of being interrupted. 
Gordon Hughes wasted no time in beginning. 
“Look here, Dane, I don’t know much about you 
except your name—if it is your name—an’ that you 
seem to know range work. Maybe I’m takin’ a 
chance—I’ve took ’em all my life, or I wouldn’t 
have this ranch—but I’m bankin’ you’re straight; 
anyways you’re straight enough, I reckon, to stick 
by any man you’d go to work for.” 

He kept his gaze on his listener who was non¬ 
chalantly building a cigarette. 

“I knew you was hep to those two men who 
was watchin’ us down there in the bottom,” the 
rancher went on, “an’ something told me you wasn’t 
in with that gang out west o’ here. I ain’t never 
seen you aroun’ here, an’ I can usually get a line 
on a man in short order; been hiring ’em an’ 
firing ’em all my life, seems. 


29 


“SOME JOB r 

“That’s why I asked you to dinner. Wanted to 
watch you. That’s why I sent you in here to 
see if Old Marty would put his O. K. on you. I 
sort of bank on what Old Marty says ’bout a 
man, too; he’s a wise old duck in some ways. I 
don’t care where you’re from, or what you’ve done 
or been, or who you are; but I’d like to hire you for 
a right tough job.” 

Dane smiled. “Looks like I didn’t make much 
of a mistake in cornin’ north,” he observed. “I’m 
listening.” 

“You didn’t make any mistake, if it’s excitement 
you’re lookin’ for,” said Hughes. “There’s been a 
feud for years between this ranch an’ the Flying 
W, just west of here. Old Oscar Williams an’ I’ve 
fought like cats an’ dogs over the boundary, which 
was ’bout a quarter of a mile west of where we 
was countin’ cattle this morning. We never got 
a fence up because both of us knew that the min¬ 
ute one or the other of us started to build a fence, 
war would be on. There’s a strip of land out there 
both of us claim. Dang it, if it wasn’t for givin’ 
in to him, I’d let him have it! 

“I might have let him have it this spring, any¬ 
way, if it hadn’t been for the way things has been 
goin’. He imported a new foreman this spring, 
feller by the name of Matt Bunker. He’s a gun¬ 
man an’ a bad one. He started in tryin’ to take 
men away from me, an’ when he couldn’t do that, 
he started ridin’ ’em. He an’ his crowd chased 
five of the boys out of Black Butte a month ago. 
They wouldn’t have went, but I’ve told ’em to lay 


30 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


off the shooting an’ if they’d stayed they’d have had 
to unlimber their hardware good an’ plenty.” 

The rancher rose and paced back and forth nerv¬ 
ously. 

“My wife hates trouble, an’ I hate trouble for 
her sake,” he went on. “I’d have give in to Wil¬ 
liams that strip on her account, if he hadn’t started 
goin’ too strong. I’ve been missing cattle, too; not 
many, but enough to show that there’s rustlers 
workin’. We can’t run rustlers out of the country 
unless we all stick together, an’ I get it from a 
roundabout way that Williams ain’t lost any cattle. 
An’ that looks funny to me, although I don’t think 
Williams would deliberately start rustlin’ to push 
along a grudge. 

“But in a whole lot of other ways he’s forcing 
the play. Bunker’s the worst. He an’ his gang 
claim they’re runnin’ the town of Black Butte, so 
far’s the cow-punchers are concerned. I can’t even 
send in a man for supplies but what, if there’s one 
of the Flying W outfit there, they’ll try to pick a 
fight with him. An’ some of my boys is gettin’ 
sore, an’ I ain’t goin’ to be able to hold ’em in, an’ 
then there’ll be all kinds of trouble.” 

He paused and frowned. “An’ I haven’t got what 
you’d call a gunman in the bunch.” 

He looked at Dane thoughtfully. Dane was 
staring out the window at the flecks of white drift¬ 
ing down from the shedding cottonwoods. In his 
eyes was a dreamy look, as though his thoughts were 
far away. 

“You takin’ all this in?” asked Hughes sharply. 


“SOME JOB!” 31 

“Em listening/ answered Dane without shifting 
his gaze. 

Hughes resumed his pacing. “I can’t have any 
trouble on the range this year,” he said with bit¬ 
terness in his tone. “An’ I can't afford to lose any 
cattle. We've had two bad winters, an’ I’m in to 
the American Bank at Black Butte pretty strong. 
Had to buy feed, an’ on top of that I lost quite a 
bit of stock. An’ hay was as high as fifty dollars 
a ton at a time when I had to have it. 

“Sam Stevens, down at the American, ain’t acted 
as friendly this spring as he might. He’s got a 
pretty good hold on me, an’ he knows it. But he’s 
got good security, even if he don’t think much of 
the shorthorns I’ve got. I know white faces are 
better than rustlers, but I’ve always had more hay 
that I needed till the last two years. Anyway, I 
can get back on my feet, good an’ stout, with this 
fall’s shipment, an’ if we have a good winter, I 
can clear next year.” 

“Hasn’t the Flying W had the same trouble the 
last couple of years?” Dane asked. 

“Sure. Williams has had to buy feed same’s I 
have. But he ain’t got so many cattle. I'm run- 
nin’ better’n five thousand head, an’ that’s pretty good 
for this range. Have to take some of ’em to the 
foothills on forest-reserve range in the summer. I 
don’t reckon Williams has got more’n two thou¬ 
sand head. We range north to the Canadian line. 
He ranges west o’ here, an’ I range east. We don’t 
mix the stock.” 


32 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“How’s it come you ain’t got a foreman?” asked 
Dane suddenly. 

“I discharged my foreman last fall because I 
thought the Williams crowd was gettin’ to him. An’ 
I want to be out ’tending to things myself. An’ I 
need new blood in here, too. That’s why I looked 
you over so hard to-day. You said you wasn’t 
particular about any job just herdin’ cows, and I’ve 
got enough cow-punchers.” 

Dane looked at the rancher quickly. 

“An’ you ain’t askin’ for any recommends,” he 
observed in a low voice. 

“The only thing I ask of a man when he goes to 
work for me is that he works for me an’ not for 
the other fellow,” replied Gordon Hughes. 

“Fair enough,” said Dane quietly. “Why did 
your daughter look at me so—so peculiar this 
noon ?” 

The rancher’s eyes widened. Then he surveyed 
Dane gravely. 

“I dunno,” he said finally, “unless it’s because 
you’re a stranger aroun’ here, an’ she didn’t know 
just what you was goin’ to do on the ranch. 

“Anyway, Esther’s peculiar since she got back from 
that school in the East,” he added. 

He turned to look at Dane again, and his own 
look this time held something Dane was unable to 
fathom. Dane reflected that this was the third 
member of the family whose gaze at times had 
him guessing. 

“What was it you was wantin’ me to do here?” 


“SOME JOB!” 33 

he asked, rising from the bunk on which he had been 
sitting. 

Hughes hesitated. He watched Dane walk to the 
window and lean on the sill. He noted that he 
rested his left elbow on the si'll. The long, taper¬ 
ing fingers of his right hand were hitched in the 
cartridge belt above the butt of his gun. 

“I was wantin’ you to find out who is rustlin’ 
my stock,” said the rancher slowly. “An’ maybe 
think up a way to keep peace on the range till I 
can get my beef shipped. An’ you can name your 
own price, if you can fill the order.” 

“Puncher’s pay suits me,” said Dane. “That’s all 
you want?” 

“If you can show old Williams of the Flying W 
where he’s makin’ a fool of himself an’ costin’ us 
both money, so much the better,” Hughes grunted. 
“You’ll have to think out the rest of the job your¬ 
self.” 

A flashing smile from Dane rewarded the rancher 
for this speech. 

“I been thinkin’ ever since you started to talk,” 
said Dane cheerfully. “Some job! An’ it beats 
herdin’ cows. I’ll be on my way in the morning to 
start work.” 

“Where are you going?” asked Hughes curi¬ 
ously. 

“To Black Butte,” replied Dane, smiling. 


CHAPTER IV 


BLACK BUTTE 

W HATEVER Gordon Hughes might have 
thought privately about Dane, whatever might 
have inspired him to acquire his services in the 
extraordinary capacity in which he had engaged him, 
he kept his motive and reasons to himself. The 
cattleman long had been a judge of men, and it 
may be that he considered Dane's arrival on the 
scene at such an opportune time as something more 
than mere chance; for the stockman was, in degree, 
inclined to be a bit superstitious. Anyway, having 
acted, he reflected no more upon the matter, but was 
prepared to await results. 

At supper that night he announced that Dane had 
been hired as an “extra hand/’ 

“What is an extra hand, daddy?” asked Esther. 
“A man who ain’t regularly employed,” replied 
her father. “That is, a man who ain’t hired for 

regular round-up work, you might say, or-” 

“I see,” Esther interrupted; “sort of ‘cow-puncher 
extraordinary?’ ” 

Gordon Hughes frowned. “That education you 
picked up in the East ain’t goin’ to help you any 
too much out here on the ranch,” he observed 
irritably. “If I was you, daughter, I’d save the 
most of it to use on the town boys when they 
get fresh.” 



BLACK BUTTE 


35 


Esther colored. Her father never had quite 
taken to the idea of her going away to school, 
although he was very proud of her. She regretted 
that many of the utterances which seemed natural 
and appropriate to her were taken by her father 
as an attempt on her part to be erudite, or even 
snobbish! Yet she had to confess to herself that 
she was not exactly the same girl she had been 
before her advent East. 

In this instance she bit her lip and refrained from 
answering her father. Her pretty brows puckered 
into a frown, as she thought of Dane. An “extra 
hand.” Then he wasn’t to be one of the men on 
the round-up; he wasn’t a regular cow-puncher, 
and he wasn’t foreman. She kept thinking of the 
title her father had bestowed upon him—extra 
hand. And he certainly was good looking. She 
couldn’t easily forget the dreamy look in his eyes 
and the occasional flashes with which they lighted 

up. It irritated her that she should actually find 

herself interested in one of the men hired on the 
ranch. And the fact that Dane had been engaged 
to work other than in the capacity of an ordinary 
cow-puncher interested her more. She was puzzled. 

Dane ate in the bunk house with half a dozen 
of the Diamond H men that night. Old Marty’s 
announcement that he was a new hand practically 
made him one of them at once. They accepted 
his easy banter, and before they quit the table he 

was on good terms with them and the Chinese 

cook as well. 

But they soon found that he was given to spells 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


36 

of long silences. Nor did he appear to hear the 
few veiled references thrown out as to where he had 
previously worked. Still, it was not the general 

rule that a man had to recite his past history 

when he came to a new place. It was the rule 

of the range that performance counted, and that 
what a man did would sooner or later show what 
he was. So, while Dane became a man of mystery, 
he did not lose caste thereby. Instead, he excited 
interest. 

“Listen to me, you wranglers,” said Old Marty 
that night when Dane went out of the bunk house 
for a breath of air, “there’s a man as knows cattle 
an’ hosses. An’, what’s more—an’ don’t forget 

who told you—there’s a man as knows how to 
handle a gun.” 

“Looks like a lot of a kid to me,” observed 
one Servais, a horse wrangler and breaker. “What’s 
he goin’ to do on the ranch?” 

Old Marty was nettled. “He ain’t as young as 
he looks,” said the old man with considerable 
spirit. “I suppose he’s goin’ out on the circle. 
But I’ll bet whatever Gordon Hughes tells him to 
do, he’ll do it in right smart fashion.” 

Servais grunted. He was a small, dark man, 
not given to speech to any extent. What he thought 
he blurted out and let that end it. It had frequently 
got him into trouble, and he had incited the wrath 
of his employer more than once; but he was in¬ 
valuable as a man who knew horses from hoof 
to mane; how to manage them, break them properly, 
care for them. He was the only man on the ranch 


BLACK BUTTE 37 

who could ride “Jupiter,” the stallion—and that is 
saying much. 

Dane, unaware that he was being discussed in 
the bunk house, and doubtless caring little whether 
he was the subject of comment or not, walked up 
the bluff in the moonlight. On the bench he halted 
and, removing his hat, permitted the cool night 
breeze, with its scent of the open spaces, to fan 
his cheeks and brow and hair. He stood for some 
time under the stars, looking about him, absorbing 
the beauties of the wild prairie night. He replaced 
his hat and stared down at the shadows of the 
ranch buildings below. All the lights were out, 
and he could not know that a pair of dark eyes 
were regarding him from a darkened window of 
the big ranch house. 

After a time he returned to the bunk house and 
sought the bunk which Old Marty had allotted him; 
smiled when he found that the old man had seen 
to it that he had plenty of blankets and a pillow 
with a clean, white case! 

Next morning he was in the saddle soon after 
breakfast. Gordon Hughes, who was going down 
to look after the beef herd in the bottoms, rode 
westward with him. 

“Now,” said the rancher, when they reached a 
point above where the cattle had been counted the 
day before, “there’s the line. See that big cotton¬ 
wood to the right? The road’s up there, an’ that 
tree marks the line, or what should be the line. 
Williams claims the line is a bit this side of the 
tree, an’ I know it’s a bit the other side. North 


38 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


of the road, about two miles, you’ll see a clump 
of alders. There’s a spring up there, and those 
alders is supposed to be on the line, too. I don’t 
range west of there, an’ Williams don’t range 
east of there. An’ we both try to keep out of 
the bad lands.” 

He pointed south, and Dane turned to look at 
the miles of brakes on either side of the broad, 
sluggish river, the Teton. It was a wild country 
of tumbled ridges, seamed with gullies and deep 
ravines, spattered with treacherous “soap holes,” 
where cattle would venture upon an apparently solid 
surface, only to bog and sink down out of sight. 
The soap holes were as bad as quicksands. 

The brakes or bad lands, were studded with 
gnarled, wind-blown, bull pines, bushes, occasional 
clumps of cottonwood, alder, quaking ash, and 
willows. It would be next to impossible to find 
and recover cattle wandering in that labyrinth of 
tortuous trails, blind paths, twisted ridges, gullies, 
ravines, soap holes, and cut banks. 

Dane reflected that here was an ideal country 
for cattle-stealing operations, provided that the 
rustlers knew the bad lands. 

“Are there any fords across the river down 
there?” he asked Hughes. 

“Most of ’em are too dangerous to tackle because 
of the quicksands,” replied the rancher. “But there’s 
one just at the end of the line down there—you 
can’t see it from here—where you can cross pretty 
good when the water’s low. The river’s high now, 


BLACK BUTTE 


39 


an’ it’ll be another month afore all the snow gets 
out of the mountains, an’ it goes down much.” 

Dane took his leave of the ranch owner and 
proceeded westward, turning north for a short 
distance to gain the road. He had ascertained 
that Black Butte was about twelve miles away. 
He rode slowly, surveying the country. South 
of him he saw occasional bunches of cattle and 
surmised they were Flying W herds. He met no one, 
and it was late in the morning when he rode into 
the town of Black Butte. 

That this was an old cow town was apparent 
at first sight. It was half hidden in a grove of 
cottonwoods on the banks of a little stream known 
as The Muddy. Its one short street was lined with 
one-story buildings, unpainted, or, if they had been 
painted once, the paint long since had faded and 
peeled. Most of the buildings flaunted false fronts, 
suggesting a height not compatible with the size 
of their interiors. 

A small bank building, two stores, a hotel, several 
resorts which once had been saloons, but now bore 
the legends of “Soft Drink Parlor” or “Soda 
Emporium,” a candy and cigar stand, one short- 
order cafe, several smaller stores, and a blacksmith 
shop and livery barn made the business section of 
Black Butte. 

The town was in the southern end of the county, 
some forty miles from a railroad. Small motor 
busses furnished connection with the trains and 
communication with the county seat, which was 
on the railroad in the north. 


40 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Dane put his horse up at the stable and entered 
the little hotel for dinner. He sat at the window 
in the small lobby waiting until the dining room 
opened. The street was practically deserted. There 
were no sidewalks, and swirls of dust blew past 
the window. Alogether it was a dead, desolate 
aspect, and Dane reflected that it would be easy 
indeed for Matt Bunker, gun-fighting foreman of 
the Flying W, to come into town with a number 
of his outfit and have things all his own way. 

The ranch buildings of the Flying W were about 
seven miles southeast of town, he had been told. 
Little wonder that the Flying W crowd found it 
possible to spend so much time there. 

After dinner he made the rounds of the various 
resorts. He was not surprised to find that illicit 
liquor was being sold across the bars, and that 
gambling was carried on openly. The town was 
isolated, without a deputy, and small enough to 
assure the tolerance of the county-seat authorities. 

In the largest resort, The Palace, he met with 
a surprise. The place was a veritable honky-tonk, 
with a big bar, lunch counter in the rear, small 
tables, card tables, a roulette wheel, and a big 
open space for dancing, with a small stage. The 
dancing space was to the left as one entered— 
opposite the bar. The stage was in the center 
on the left side. One had to pass the bar and 
the dancing space surrounded by little tables to 
reach the gambling tables at the lower end of the 
big room. The place was profusely decorated, and 
big oil lamps hung between streamers of varicolored 


BLACK BUTTE 


4i 


4 

bunting overhead. There was a balcony running 

halfway round the room. 

He hardly knew this place when he entered it 

that evening after supper. It had been deserted 
in the afternoon, save for a few solo players and 
men working; but with the coming of night it 

took on a festive appearance and resounded with 
the music from a three-piece orchestra, the shouts 
and rough jests of men at the bar, the jingle of 
spurs and the clinking of glasses, the dull rattle 
of chips. Dane stopped stock-still before he reached 
the bar, and his brows lifted in genuine surprise. 

A girl was singing. 

He turned to look and saw her swaying near 
the orchestra, in front of and below the stage. 
She was a pretty girl, with large brown eyes, a 
wealth of dark hair, rosy lips, and cheeks which had 
been rouged. She was slight, but exquisitely formed. 
And she was dressed in a pale-pink thing which 
accentuated her charm. She possessed a good voice, 
and when she came to the chorus she showed that 
she could dance. 

“Who is it?” Dane asked a man at the bar. 

“That’s Marie,” grinned the other. “An’ don’t 
try to get fresh with her. She ain’t that kind.” 

Dane smiled his thanks for the information 
volunteered and wandered back to the card tables, 
taking careful note of the men in the place. 

For the most part they appeared to be ranch hands 
or cow-punchers, and Dane wondered if any of 
them were from the Flying W. He had heard 
the little., boisterous town was a rendezvous for 


42 


RIDER O' THE STARS 


all manner of characters, many of them shady, 
perhaps, for miles around. Certain it was that there 
were gambling sharks present, for Dane’s practiced 
eye enabled him to pick out a number of “boosters” 
or house players at each of the two tables where 
stud poker was being played. 

He stood looking on at a game and was astonished 
to see how rapidly the place filled up. He surmised 
that the hotel and the few houses, shacks and tent 
abodes must have been filled during the day with 
the sleeping night patrons of The Palace. 

Other girls besides the singer appeared, and soon 
dancing was in progress. It then became apparent 
that the dancing feature of the place was kept apart 
from the other forms of entertainment in the resort, 
A short, thickset, placid-appearing man, who acted 
with the authority of a proprietor, was present on 
the floor, and when a dancer made too frequent 
trips to the bar to assure the equilibrium of his 
steps, he was quietly, but forcibly, guided through 
the spaces between the little tables and denied the 
privilege of dancing. 

Dane strolled over to the roulette wheel, which 
was situated near a short flight of steps leading to 
the balcony. He divided his attention between the 
operations at the wheel and in surveying the patrons 
of the place. 

During one of the dance numbers he saw the 
girl, Marie, in conversation with a man in leather 
chaps and broad sombrero. The girl appeared angry 
and resentful, Dane thought; and when the man 
attempted to induce her to dance, she drew away 


BLACK BUTTE 


43 


from him with flashing eyes. Dane remembered 
the admonition of the stranger at the bar and smiled. 

But the girl plainly detested the man who wanted 
to dance with her in this instance, and finally the 
short, placid man interfered and introduced her 
to another, a younger man, with whom she im¬ 
mediately whirled away. 

The man who had been talking to her said 
something to the floor manager and turned with 
blazing eyes which, because he was looking straight 
at him, stared into Dane’s. At once the man 
moved in Dane’s direction. 

The latter noted that the man had a large face, 
with cold features; he was freshly shaven; his 
eyes showed plenty of white and appeared to bulge 
a little. They were of a greenish brown. He was 
stockily built, a little above average height. An 
ivory-handled six-shooter reposed in the holster 
strapped on his right. 

He walked straight to Dane. 

“Stranger in town?” he asked. 

“Not exactly,” Dane drawled; “town’s too small 
for that. I’ve been here since mornin’ an’ got 
pretty well acquainted with it.” 

“So?” said the other, with the suggestion of a 
sneer. “An’ where might you be from?” 

“I see,” snapped Dane. “You’re takin’ the census. 
I’m from the south.” 

“That’s a lie!” retorted the other. “Two of 
my men saw you ridin’ in from the east this 
mornin’.” 


44 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“What was that you said?” inquired Dane in 
a mild tone, although his eyes were flashing coldly. 

His interrogator read the signal and hesitated. 
They had the attention now of those at the wheel 
and others nearby. 

“I saw you come in from the east.” 

“An’ I didn’t deny it,” replied Dane evenly. “But 
I also come from the south of the river. Get 
that? Or can’t your brain work that hard?” 

The other’s face darkened. “You workin’ for 
the Diamond H ?'” he demanded. 

“If I was I don’t reckon I’d be reportin’ to 
you” smiled Dane. 

“Then I figure I’m right,” said the man. Two 
others at his back mumbled something. 

“If you’re Diamond H you’re in the wrong place,” 
he said, compressing his lips. 

“It suits me,” replied Dane. “Are you the major- 
domo here, or just takin’ it on yourself to give 
orders?” There was a queer note of cheerfulness 
in his tone, and, though his face had paled under 
its tan, his eyes were dancing with a queer, steel- 
blue light. 

“I’m tellin’ you so’s you can light out while 
you’ve got the chance,” the other roared. “That 
isn’t orders, that’s good advice.” 

“I’m much obliged for the favor,” said Dane, as 
the smile froze on his face. “I take it you’re right 
generous to-night.” 

The man who had been overseeing the dancing 
pushed through the throng. 

“You gents will have to settle your argument 


BLACK BUTTE 


45 


somewheres else/’ he said, visibly nervous. '‘There’s 
county men in town to-night, an’ I can’t run any 
chances of a brawl. We’re shuttin’ down the games 
in ten minutes,” he added with an appealing look 
at the man who was confronting Dane. 

This evidently had its effect. 

“You got the high ball,” said Dane’s accoster 
savagely, as he turned on his heel. A path to the 
bar opened like magic, and he disappeared. 

“I’m Willis Brady,” said the man who had inter¬ 
vened, to Dane. “I try to run this place halfway 
right an’ keep set with the bunch at the county 
seat; but you fellers have got to help the play, if 
I’m goin’ to keep open.” 

Dane nodded and was about to ask a question, 
when the other, turning aside, drew a small whistle 
from his pocket and sounded a shrill blast. 

“Last roll, boys!” came from the man who was 
running the wheel. 

Dane felt something drop upon his shoulder; then 
a chip fell upon the floor. He looked up and beheld 
the girl, Marie, beckoning to him from the balcony. 
After a moment of indecision he ran lightly up 
the stairs. 


CHAPTER V 


THE INSULT 

W HEN Dane reached the balcony & found 
that the dance-hall girl, Marie, was greatly 
agitated. Her eyes were bright, and her glances 
darted with the flashing swiftness of those of a 
hunted animal. Her whole body was trembling, 
and she twisted a bit of handkerchief in her fingers 
nervously. 

“Come thees way,” she whispered, drawing back 
from the rail of the balcony. 

Then she led him to the front end of the balcony 
over the diminutive stage. Here curtains were hung, 
and, as they stepped behind them, she paused before 
a door and spoke again. 

“They will not come here,” she said excitedly. 
“Thees is my room in here. The man who talk 
to you—you are not afraid of him?” 

Dane smiled at her anxiety. She was indeed a 
pretty girl. He saw that she was prettier, if any¬ 
thing, under her rouge. Nor was her manner 
coquettish or bold. Was this an attempt to involve 
him in a sordid lover's quarrel—a frame-up, per¬ 
haps ? 

“That man who talk to you,” she repeated, her 
wide eyes staring at him in frightened wonder, 
“you stand up to him when ever’body run?” 


THE INSULT 


47 


“Em not afraid of him, if that’s what you mean,” 
said Dane. “But I don't intend to let him get 
the drop on me.” 

“Ah!” She drew in a long breath, and her eyes 
were shining. 

“He ees a ver’ bad man,” she said slowly. “Be 
careful to no talk too loud. You know who he 
ees? He ees Bunkair from the Flying Doubleyoo. 
His hand it itch to shoot. Myself, I see heem 
shoot—fast, ver’ fast. Like thees!” 

She snapped thumb and finger to illustrate the 
speed with which Bunker was supposed to draw 
his gun and fire. 

He was standing just within the shadow of the 
curtain, peering down at the scene below. The 
wheel had been removed from the table at the foot 
of the stairs. The dealers at the stud tables were 
cashing the last of the players’ checks, and already 
two innocent games, one of solo and the other 
of hearts, were in progress. The blackjack dealer, 
having closed his game, was walking toward the 
bar with his check rack. Most of the lights in 
the rear half of the room had been extinguished. 
The proprietor, tipped off long since, was ready 
for the advent of the authorities who happened 
to be in the town that night. 

The crowd had thinned considerably. There were 
less than a dozen at the bar. Bunker was the center 
of activities there. He was roaring orders to the 
bartender who was serving the white liquor. Even 
as Dane looked, he saw the stout, placid man, Willis 
Brady, hold up a finger at the white-coated servitor. 


48 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


The bartender whispered something to the men be¬ 
fore him who hurriedly downed their drinks. The 
glasses of near beer had hardly been set upon 
the bar for camouflage, when three men entered 
by the front door and greeted Brady. 

Dane quickly drew further back behind the curtain. 

“Those men,” he said quickly to Marie—“they 
must not see me.” He looked hastily about. “Per¬ 
haps they will come up on the balcony,” he added, 
knitting his brows. 

“Here,” she said excitedly, as she opened the 
door behind her. “Go in.” She pushed him within, 
followed him, and shut the door. 

“No, they will not come in here,” she said with 
a look in which he thought triumph smoldered. 
“Thees air my room.” 

There were really two rooms. Dane saw that 
the one they were in was a little sitting room, 
neatly appointed, with a phonograph in one corner 
and pictures on the walls. A door was open to 
the other room, evidently the girl’s sleeping room. 
Dane could see a window through the doorway. 
What he could see of the other room indicated 
that it also was simply furnished. 

“Those men—they look for you?” asked Marie, 
smiling. 

“I don’t think so,” Dane replied. “But they 
might know me. Are you French?” he added 
curiously. 

“But yes—my mother, she was French. But 
I am born in thees countree. I am American. 
See?” She pointed with a charming little shrug 


THE INSULT 


49 


to the American flag which hung above a long 
mirror on one side of the room. 

“You see—I am American.” Her eyes were 
laughing orbs of dark, mysterious color. 

Dane thought to remove his hat and frowned. He 
was puzzled. 

“You know why I call you up?” 

He frowned again at the dancing light in her 
eyes and drew away, as she put a small hand 
on his arm. 

“Ah, the beeg, stron’ man, he afraid of the 
little girl,” she said in evident delight. Then she 
sobered, stepped to the door, and turned the key 
in the lock. When she returned she faced him 
squarely. 

“I call you up here to give you the warning,” 
she said seriously. “That Bunkair—I know what 
he mean by his look.” Her face clouded angrily, 
and Dane remembered how she had looked when 
the Flying W foreman had tried to make her dance 
with him. 

“Right now he has his men here,” she continued 
breathlessly. “They watch. I see you not ’fraid 
of heem like other men. So I tell you. You 
can be careful—yes?” 

“I can sure be that,” Dane agreed. “An’ I’m 
obliged to you for puttin’ me wise, although I 
reckoned that was Bunker when he stepped up 
to me.” 

She was staring at him again. Suddenly she 
lowered her gaze in a disconcerting fashion, Dane 
thought. He stirred and looked toward the door. 


50 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


He had heard some one on the balcony. She, 
too, was listening. Then she caught his arm. 

“They no come in here,” she said quickly in 

a low tone. “You tell me—you come from Diamond 
H?” 

Dane smothered an exclamation. Then she was 
merely after information, after all. A weak ruse, 
he thought to himself. Yet it was certain that 
it would only be a matter of time before Matt 
Bunker and the others learned he was indeed from 
the Diamond H. Why not learn the consequences at 
once—draw their fire from the start? Also, he 
was reasonably certain that Bunker knew he had 
come from the Hughes ranch that day. 

He looked at the girl coldly. 

“Yes, I’m from the Diamond H,” he replied 

sternly. 

Her face lit up, and her eyes sparkled. “I tell 
nobody ’tall,” she said. 

She continued to look at him, while he regarded 
her with suspicion. Twice she started to speak, 
but desisted. It was plain that she wanted very 
much to ask a question but was holding it back. 

“Say,” he said suddenly, “what more do you 

know about Bunker?” He was thinking of the 
scene he had witnessed a short time before. 

“Ugh!” She shrugged. “You must use the care. 
He ees a ver’ bad man. I guess they go now. 
I look.” 

She turned the key in the lock, opened the 
door, and looked out upon the balcony. Instantly 
she shrank back, and her gaze darted to him in 


THE INSULT 


5i 

fear. He pushed past her and looked down the 
length of the balcony. 

Matt Bunker was sitting on the railing near the 
head of the stairs, swinging his left foot, gazing 
at them with a sneer upon his lips. 

“Havin’ a nice little party?” he called. 

Dane imagined the girl behind him caught her 
breath in a sob. He walked rapidly toward Bunker, 
who rose and confronted him at the head of the 
stairs, still sneering. As he walked, Dane flashed 
a look below and saw that the three county 
men evidently had left, or were closeted in some 
private room with Brady, for they were nowhere 
in sight. There were only half a dozen men stand¬ 
ing at the bar. 

“I don’t suppose you’d understand, or want to 
understand, so I’m not going to try an’ explain,” 
he said, stopping before Bunker. 

Bunker was speaking over Dane’s shoulder to the 
girl, and the insult in Bunker’s tone was un¬ 
mistakable. 

“Bunker, you’re a low-thinkin’ rat!” said Dane 
hoarsely, leaning toward the other. 

“It don’t take much thinkin’ when I can use 
my eyes,” leered Bunker. “I got your number, 
an’ I got the number of that kid.” 

Dane’s right fist shot out and caught Bunker 
full on the jaw. The Flying W foreman toppled 
backward and crashed down upon the guard rail 
on the left side of the stairs, smashed through it, 
and fell to the floor just as Dane swung over the 
balcony railing and dropped. 


52 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


As he hit the floor, stumbling against a table, 
Dane’s gun flashed in his hand, and two shots 
rang out. There were crashes of splintering glass 
which rained upon the floor, and the pair of lights 
overhead went out. 

Dane dashed across the deserted dancing space 
toward the front door. He kept one eye on the 
men at the bar who had swung about and were 
staring in astonishment at what was happening so 
unexpectedly. The bartender was running down 
behind the bar toward a closed door which doubtless 
opened into a private room in the rear. 

Dane grooved the bar, two feet ahead of the 
running man, with a bullet, and he stopped dead 
in his tracks, whirling about and elevating his hands. 
A man at the bar recovered from his surprise and 
went for his gun. Flame streaked from Dane’s 
weapon for the fourth time, and the man’s right 
arm jerked back and then hung limp at his side. 
As Dane gained the door and flung it open, he 
shot a last glance in the direction of the stairway 
and balcony. He saw Bunker crawling from behind 
the stairs, gun in hand. Above he glimpsed the 
white features of the girl, Marie, leaning over 
the balcony railing, her eyes wide with fright, her 
hands clutching at her throat. Bunker was raising 
his gun. 

Dane fired the two remaining shots in his weapon, 
and the bullets splintered into the floor, only a scant 
three inches from where Bunker’s left elbow rested 
upon it. 


THE INSULT 


53 

With a laugh he darted out of the door, as Bunker 
emptied his gun in that direction. 

But the light was too dim in the front of the 
room for the Flying W man to reach his mark in 
that flashing instant. Dane, being in the subdued 
light and shooting toward the bar, where the lights 
still burned, had had an advantage, when he stopped 
the bartender and wounded the man who had tried 
to come to Bunker’s aid. And he had purposely 
shot into the floor in front of Bunker, for he had 
no desire to kill the Flying W foreman. 

Outside, Dane ran swiftly down the street to the 
barn just beyond the hotel. He grabbed a lantern 
from the man and dashed for his saddle and bridle. 
In marvelously quick time he had the. bay bridled 
and saddled and had reloaded his gun. He led 
the horse out of the rear door of the barn, mounted 
and rode into the sheltering shadows of the big 
cottonwoods. 

Slowly he picked his way in the dark around to 
the south side of the town and, keeping close within 
the shadow of the trees, worked to the eastern end, 
where he rode southward, close to the timber along 
the banks of Muddy Creek. 

Any one seeing him, as he rode with the moonlight 
shining on his face, would have marveled at the 
joyous satisfaction reflected in his eyes. And, con¬ 
sidering the exciting and dangerous incident just 
closed, one would have marveled, too, at the steadi¬ 
ness of his hands, as he deftly rolled a cigarette, 
snapped a match into flame in his cupped palm, 
and lighted the weed, totally indifferent to the 


54 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


fact that the flare of light must certainly disclose 
his whereabouts to any who might be following. 

Yet his manner did not betray recklessness, nor 
needless carelessness; confidence radiated from him 
—it was in his very poise in the saddle. He hummed 
lightly, as he guided his mount into the denser 
shadow and brought him to a halt. 

He waited in the darkness, smoking. Before him 
the vast plain stretched eastward toward the Dia¬ 
mond H and beyond. In the south the rolling 
range of the Flying W reached to the black fringe 
of shadow which marked the beginning of the 
bad lands. The prairie was bathed in the flood 
of moonlight, alive with shifting shadows and 
the silvered crests of gentle rises—a mysterious 
land laved by the scented prairie wind which crept 
out of the northwest and sang in the quivering 
grasses. 

Now the steady pound of hoofs came to his ears. 
He saw three riders bear down from the north 
and swing off southeastward. 

“Bunker an’ two of his outfit headin’ back to 
the Flyin’ W,” murmured Dane aloud. 

He finished his cigarette, while the trio disappeared 
to the south of him. Then he rode slowdy back 
toward the main road leading eastward. He turned 
into the shadows again, as he heard a horse coming 
at a fast gallop along the road from the direction 
of the town. As the horse passed him, the moon¬ 
light shone full on the face of the rider. Dane 
whistled softly in surprise. 


THE INSULT 


55 

“Marie! Now where’s she headin’ for this time 
o’ night?” 

He waited until the girl was some distance ahead 
of him, then he struck out into the road and fol¬ 
lowed. He had to ride hard to keep the girl in 
sight, for she was mounted on a good horse and 
was going at a fast pace, Dane’s wonder increased, 
as he saw her turn south at a point a short distance 
west of the imaginary line between the two ranches. 

He turned south, also, but now the ground was 
broken by short ridges and miniature ravines, and 
much of the time he lost sight of her altogether. 
Then she and her mount were swallowed by the 
shadow of the brakes along the river. 

Dane guided his horse, as near as he could tell, 
to the point where she had disappeared. Off to 
the right he could see a herd of cattle—Flying W 
stock. To the left the bottoms were clear. Directly 
before him were the first tumbled ridges of the bad 
lands. In vain he searched for a trail. He rode 
back and forth, looking for a path leading into 
the labyrinth along the river which the girl might 
have followed. He found nothing remotely re¬ 
sembling an entrance into that mysterious land of 
shadow. 

Then he ventured in. He followed a shallow 
coulee for a short distance, crossed a ridge at its 
blind end, entering a ravine, brought up at the 
edge of a soap hole, its thin, surface coating of 
alkali gleaming like the white of powdered skulls 
in the light of the moon. 

Cautiously he circled the left side of the treacher- 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


56 

ous bog and went on. His horse stumbled in the 
darkness, and he swerved to gain the crest of a high 
ridge. In the north he saw the plain, but all about 
him were shadows with twisted, blunted pines rearing 
their hideous shapes, and the ghostly gleam of a 
soap hole showing here and there in the dim light. 

It was folly to think that the girl had entered 
the bad lands, he decided. Whatever had prompted 
her to take that wild night ride, it could be nothing 
associated with this desolate, dangerous section of 
the brakes. She had probably ridden east or west 
in the shadow of the first ridges. Had she gone 
to keep a tryst? He sniffed at this as unlikely, 
but at the same time wrinkled his brows in per¬ 
plexity. 

Anyway, it was time for him to get out of 
the brakes. 

He rode down the side of the ridge on the 
northeast, intending to take what looked like a short 
cut back to the plain. For some time he threaded 
his way with difficulty through ravines and gullies, 
across open spaces, through patches of scrub timber, 
and then, when he thought he had about reached 
the objective point, he climbed another ridge to 

make sure of his bearings. 

The plain now was farther away and in an 

opposite direction from where he had expected it 
to be! He took new bearings and again struck 

out for the open country. He had to turn back 
several times when he reached the blind end of 

ravines which appeared to deepen and widen as 
he progressed. He mounted a ridge and strove 


THE INSULT 


57 


to pierce the shadow which hemmed him in. The 
moonlight surface of the prairie and bottom land 
was nowhere to be seen. He was lost! 

Unable to see for any distance in any direction, 
he concentrated his gaze on the territory near at 
hand. It was a land of dense shadow because of 
the straggling growths of timber. The moon seemed 
nearly overhead, and in his bewilderment he could 
make no headway toward determining direction 
from it. He snorted in disgust, and then his 
gaze froze, as he looked to the right. 

A blaze! No, it was not the flickering light of 
a camp fire, for it was steady. A lamp or lantern 
—and it was stationary. Could it be there was a 
habitation in that wild, desolate country ? 

Dane took careful note of the direction in which 
he had seen the light and started for it, following 
a long ravine which led that way. When he 
climbed the next ridge he failed to see the light. 
He camped for the night in the bottom of the 
next ravine. 


CHAPTER VI 


NIGHT MAGIC 

D ANE was up with the first gray streamers of 
dawn. He went up on the ridge at the end 
of the long ravine, which he had followed after 
seeing the light the night before, and took a survey 
of the country. He saw the river through the inter¬ 
laced branches of trees to the south of him, and 
could make out the bench land some distance in 
the north. He could not see the bottom lands below 
it. 

All about him were the bad lands, and they 
seemed weirdly beautiful in the light of the rising 
sun—colorful, wild, almost awe-inspiring. Some¬ 
thing in their mocking beauty and desolation ap¬ 
pealed to him, and he stood for a long time looking 
about him dreamily. Here was a natural, trackless 
refuge for the hunted—man or beast. 

His thoughts returned to the light he had seen 
the night before, to the dance-hall girl who had 
ridden so mysteriously he knew not where, to 
Bunker and his insolence. Dane felt now that it 
had been Bunker’s' intention to precipitate a gun 
play on the balcony. He didn’t want a gun play 
with Bunker—yet. 

As he reflected upon it, he saw that Bunker 
was endeavoring to force his attentions upon the 


NIGHT MAGIC 


59 


girl, Marie. Doubtless it was Bunker’s aggressive¬ 
ness toward him, Dane, which had caused the girl 
to warn him. He wondered now if her warning 
had been sincere. Was Marie what she appeared 
to be—a clever and straightforward girl working 
on the dance floor for the wages it brought her? 
And how interested she had been in learning if 
he was from the Diamond H! 

Dane gave her up temporarily as a mystery and 
smiled at the recollection that he himself was a 
mystery in that locality. He checked up on the 
bearings he had taken by moonlight and proceeded 
in a southwesterly direction, keeping on his course 
by means of landmarks selected ahead and behind 
him. Within an hour he gazed down from the 
crest of a high ridge into a little clearing where 
there was a rough cabin. 

No one was in sight, and there were no signs 
of smoke. He dismounted and waited for more 
than an hour in the shelter of the scant timber 
on the top of the ridge. Still he saw no one; 
and there were no visible evidences that the cabin 
below was occupied. 

Finally he rode down the ridge and tied his 
horse at the edge of the clearing. He crept silently 
to the cabin and looked in at the one window. 
It was deserted. He found the door secured by 
a heavy padlock. However it was plain that the 
cabin had been used recently, for there was a neat 
pile of wood chopped, and the branches thrown over 
a frame of saplings to form a roof for a little 
porch in front were freshly cut. 


6o 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


He looked about the clearing. The imprint 
of many hoofs met his eye. There had been cattle 
m here. Dane considered. It might be that he 
was on the trail of the missing Diamond H stock. 
For why should one or more men want a cabin 
in the heart of the bad lands, unless they were 
hiding out, or engaged in some nefarious under¬ 
taking which required the protection and secrecy 
of the wilderness? 

There were numerous trails leading out of the 
clearing on its south side. Dane followed each 
of these a distance. In every instance the trails 
split up into dim paths that crossed and crisscrossed 
in such intricate and bewildering fashion that twice 
he experienced difficulty in finding his way back 
to the clearing. And cattle tracks appeared on all 
the trails! He had been told there were a few 
bands of strays in the bad lands, and it might 
be that the tracks had been made by one of these 
bands. But the presence of the cabin was in 
itself suspicious. 

He decided to wait for a time to see if any 
one came to the cabin. He sat in a small bunch 
of quaking ash at the northern edge of the clearing 
and smoked, while his horse grazed on the rich 
grass which grew on the lower slope of the ridge. 

The sun mounted to the zenith before he rose, 
a prey to gnawing pains of hunger, and prepared 
to go. He led his horse up the ridge where he 
got his bearings. As he rode down the other 
side of the ridge toward the flatlands in the north, 
he took out his pocketknife and cut small blazes on 


NIGHT MAGIC 


61 


the north and south sides of the trees along his 
course. In this way he made a well-defined trail so 
that he could at any time in daylight find his way 
back to the cabin in the heart of the brakes. When 
he reached the bottoms he rode at a rapid pace 

eastward and reached the Diamond H ranch build¬ 
ings in midafternoon. 

A word to Old Marty resulted in a speedy and 
substantial meal served by the obsequious China¬ 
man. He asked Marty about the bad lands, but 
all the old man said about them was that they were 
“a good place to stay away from, unless one wanted 
to get bogged, or lost, or both!” 

A man came in from Black Butte late in the 
afternoon with a load of supplies, and at the supper 
table that night Dane knew by the looks the men 
directed at him that the incident of the night before 
had been reported. 

Fred Hughes passed him after supper without 
a word in the space before the bunk house, but 
he looked at him with that same curious, indefinable 
expression in his eyes which Dane had noted before. 
This trait of the boy’s was irritating. 

Dane retired to his bunk early, and next day 

he rode out to look at the various brands on 
the cattle in the bottoms. Gordon Hughes owned 
several brands, and it was only the shorthorns 
which were all branded with the Diamond H. 

Although he saw and talked with the rancher, 

the latter made no mention of Dane’s expedition 
to town; nor did he intimate that he had heard 
what had happened. Dane suspected Hughes knew 


62 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


he had gone to town to get a look at Bunker. 
It was as if there was an unspoken understanding 
between the two. 

After supper that night Dane walked along the 
bottom east of the house. The long twilight had 
drawn its purple veil over the land, and the first 
stars were gleaming faintly in the darkening skies. 
A breath of wind stirred the leaves of the cotton¬ 
woods, and the scent of sun-warmed earth was 
strong. It was that time of the year when summer 
hangs upon the heels of the short prairie spring 
and comes suddenly—seemingly in a single day! 
As Dane was walking back toward the house, he 
stopped suddenly at a movement among the trees, 
and his hand dropped instinctively to the butt 
of his gun. Then a bobbing blotch of white 
appeared against the shadow of the timber. 

“Don’t shoot, Mr. Dane,” came a girl’s voice. 

“Good evening, ma’am,” said Dane, as Esther 
Hughes approached. 

“You seem to like to be by yourself,” she observed, 
as she joined him. “You walk abroad of nights.” 

She laughed at her own quoting speech. 

But Dane didn’t laugh. He looked at her curi¬ 
ously. Here was a girl, Western born, who had 
acquired much of the refinement of the East. She 
had a certain confidence; but it was not the 
frank confidence of the Western girl who can 
ride and shoot and take care of herself under 
most circumstances. It was the confidence of speech 
and manner, and Dane decided that it didn’t jibe 
with his conception of what a Western girl, such 


NIGHT MAGIC 63 

as the daughter of the owner of the Diamond H, 
should be. 

“I reckon I like to walk aroun’ in the evenin’, 
ma’am,” he said soberly, remembering to doff his 
hat in salute. 

“But you know what they say when a man 
walks around much alone,” she taunted. 

“I can’t say as I do, ma’am.” 

“When he keeps by himself a great deal they 
hint that he may have a guilty conscience,” said 
Esther with a quick look at him. 

“Them as say that, maybe, has had some ex¬ 
perience along that line, ma’am,” he retorted with 
a vague smile. Esther’s brows lifted in quick per¬ 
ception of the adroitness of his reply. 

“It’s plain to see, Mr. Dane, that you are no 
ordinary cow-puncher,” she said severely. “I—I 
can’t help feeling interested in you.” 

“You’re a heap interesting yourself,” he said 
with a drawl. 

Esther colored. He thought to himself that she 
was very beautiful, as she stood in the half light, 
her face turned up to him frankly. 

“I didn’t know you included flattery among your 
other accomplishments,” she said, looking away. 

“Was that flattery, ma’am? Well, I reckon I’m 
learnin’ then.” 

“Let’s walk up on the bench,” she suggested. 
“I rather want to talk to you; in fact there’s 
something I want to ask you.” 

“Maybe I won’t know the answer,” he grinned, 
as they moved across the meadow in the bottom 


64 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


and began the ascent to the bench. She slipped 

on the trail, and he caught her to support her. 

“Never mind, Mr. Dane,” she said, disdaining his 
arm. “I can still climb a trail even if I have been 
East to school.” 

“I’m mighty glad to hear that, ma’am,” he 

said, seemingly with enthusiasm. 

She stopped surprised. 

“Why do you say that?” she asked, curious. 

“I’d thought maybe you’d forgot a lot about 

the West since you’d been away, ma’am.” 

She bit her lip and frowned, and they continued 
on to the flatland. 

“I know what you mean,” she said, as they 
gained the high ground. “You think I’m no longer 
Western; but I am—I just am,” she added stridently. 

“I’m glad to hear that, too,” said Dane lightly, 
“and I, didn’t exactly say what you mentioned.” 

“But you meant it,” she accused, petulantly. “And 
in some ways I am changed,” she confessed. “There 
are lots of things I don’t look at in the same light 
I used to.” 

“Like what, for instance, ma’am?” 

She thought there was something patronizing in 
his tone and resented it. 

“Like violence,” she retorted. “Our Western 
idea that disputes and differences and even injustice 
should be settled by violent measures is wrong 
and ridiculous; and a whole lot of it is nothing 
more than heroics and cheap melodrama. Look 
at the way your hand jumped to your gun when 
I came out of the trees!” 


NIGHT MAGIC 


65 


He started and stiffened. 

“Why, I didn’t hardly know it did that,” he 
said slowly. “It sort of dropped down there by 
instinct, I guess.” 

She had been mean, and she knew it. She had 
meant to be. Why should this man of the range 
be arguing with kerf And why should she be 
irritated at him, one of her father’s hired men? 
That’s all he amounted to. But was it all he 
amounted to? 

She looked at his strong, lean face, lit by the 
first light of the stars. He was staring dreamily 
out over the bottoms to the sky above the cotton¬ 
woods. She had seen those same eyes flash, when 
she had cut him with that remark about his hand 
dropping to his gun. And she had heard things. 

“Mr. Dane, why should your hand go to your 
gun by instinct?” she asked quietly. If she expected 
him to be disconcerted, she was disappointed. 

“Because I was brought up that way, ma’am,” 
he replied in a soft voice. 

She bit her lip again in vexation. There it was 
once more—the tradition and teaching of the West. 
Somehow his remark seemed pointed at her. And 
there he stood, seemingly oblivious of her very 
presence, gazing up at the stars. 

“I thought, perhaps, there might be other reasons,” 
she said; and immediately afterward she was angry 
with herself. 

“There might be,” he conceded, to her surprise. 

Somehow his remark seemed definitely to close 
that topic of conversation. And, if anything, it 


66 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


increased the aura of mystery which surrounded 

him. Why was she finding it difficult to talk to 
this man? What was there about him which 

baffled her ? Why, he interested her more than 

any man she had met since she returned to the 
West! She flushed at the realization, and then 
felt more than ever resentful toward him. 

The night shades had fallen, and the high arch 
of the heavens was aglow with stars. A cool wind 
brought the tang of open country, and in the brakes 
to southward coyotes began their nocturnal serenade. 
Something of the spell of the night seized her. 

After all this was her country as much as his. 
She had been born here. 

“Does the wind ever talk to you, Mr. Dane?” 
she asked suddenly. 

“Why, yes, ma’am,” he answered surprised. “The 
wind an’ I are pals, I reckon.” 

“And the stars—do they talk to you, too?” 

He laughed softly. “I don’t just exactly know 
what the stars do, ma’am,” he replied, sobering. 
“But they do something. I like to look at ’em an’ 
ride under ’em. They seem to be sort of kiddin’ 
me along.” 

She looked at him sharply and perceived at once 
that he was not joking. 

“The wind and the stars and you seem to be 
a mystery all in one,” she commented idly. “You’ve 
always lived in this country?” 

“I was born here, ma’am.” 

“Near here? Near this ranch anywhere?” she 
asked in surprise. 


NIGHT MAGIC 


67 


He turned to her, and his white teeth flashed 
against the tan of his features, as he smiled at her. 
“This country takes in a lot of territory, ma’am,” 
he said, including the rim of the sky in a sweeping 
gesture and leaving her question unanswered. 

“Why is it you won’t tell any one anything about 
yourself?” she demanded impatiently. 

“An’ why should any one want to know much 
about me, ma’am?” 

She stamped a neatly shod foot in annoyance. 
“Do you know what the men are saying about you?” 
she flashed. 

“No, I reckon I don’t. An’ I can’t say I’m a heap 
particular.” 

“They’re saying you’re a gunman!” she retorted 
accusingly. 

“Maybe they are—say in’ that,” he reflected 
dreamily. 

“And they call you 'Lightning’ Dane,” she went 
on scornfully. “Are you proud of that title—Light¬ 
ning Dane, the gunman!” 

“It does sound a little like the heroics you men¬ 
tioned, ma’am,” he said, smiling at her. 

“It’s ridiculous!” she stormed. “The West is 
becoming too civilized for guns and the like.” 

“But maybe everybody don’t realize that, ma’am,” 
he interposed quietly. “There’s some that ain’t 
been enlightened an’ are workin’ on the old principle. 
An’ some of ’em are tough customers.” 

“Like yourself, I suppose I am to infer,” she said 
tartly. “I don’t take it that you would be ashamed 


68 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


of your calling, and I really am curious to know if 
you are what they accuse you of being/’ 

She looked at him expectantly, her lips parted, 
wisps of hair fluttering in the wind. 

“I reckon there’s nothing quite gets a woman like 
bein’ curious, ma’am,” he said gravely, without look¬ 
ing at her. 

“It isn’t altogether curiosity with me,” she snapped; 
“I have the interests of the ranch at heart.” 

“Just so,” he agreed. 

“We had better be going down,” she decided sud¬ 
denly. 

They walked slowly down the trail from the 
bench land to the bottom and turned toward the 
ranch house at the farther end of the long meadow. 

Esther Hughes could not resist her feeling of 
irritation, which was aggravated by the fact that 
something in Dane’s personality, or the mystery about 
him, appealed to her. 

She glanced at the lithe figure at her side. Her 
gaze dropped to the butt of the gun so near her. 
As she looked at his profile, she reflected that he 
was almost too young to be a professional killer. 
Her mood softened. 

“There’s something I wish to ask of you,” she 
said, stopping and touching him on the arm. “Please 
promise you will not set—a bad example before my 
brother.” 

“That depends, ma’am, on what you take to be 
a bad example,” he said, removing his hat. 

“Oh, oh!” she exclaimed. “I believe I hate you!” 

And she ran toward the house. 


CHAPTER VII 


IN THE BRAKES 

\V/HILE Dane was saddling his horse after break- 
fast the following morning, Fred Hughes came 
into the barn. Dane glanced at him curiously, and 
he saw that the youth was standing and watching 
him, and, to Dane’s surprise, there seemed to be a 
more cordial look in the young man’s eyes. 

“Ridin’ out this mornin’?” Fred asked with a 
smile. 

“Thought I’d scout aroun’ a little,” replied Dane, 
wondering just how much the boy might know about 
his, Dane’s, somewhat unusual position on the ranch. 

“Which way?” the youth inquired. 

“Aroun’ south, I reckon,” Dane returned. He 
didn’t feel that it would be wise to tell the boy 
much about his movements, and he didn’t care par¬ 
ticularly to be discussing his activities with him. 

Fred, however, was evidently in a friendly mood 
this morning. Dane noted with interest that the 
youth had a good face and was an excellent physi¬ 
cal product of outdoor life. That he was young, 
with the aggressiveness and heedlessness of youth, 
was apparent; but it also was to be seen that he 
possessed the qualities, or many of them, which go 
to make a man. 


70 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


As Dane was leading his horse out of the stall, 
Fred spoke to him again. 

“Hear you had quite a time down in Black Butte 
the other day,” he said casually, rolling a cigarette. 

“There’s those who’d talk about anything,” Dane 
countered with a frown. 

“I’m glad you lit into Matt Bunker,” exclaimed 
the youth with vehemence. “He’s got a lot coming 
to him.” 

Dane was surprised at the bitterness in the boy’s 
tone. 

“I take it you ain’t fond of Bunker,” he re¬ 
marked. 

Fred’s face darkened. “Some day I’m going to 
kill him!” he said in a voice which shook, as he 
turned and walked away. 

Dane looked after him, marveling at the passion 
he had displayed. He was inclined to smile at Fred’s 
threat, but he did not discount the evident sincerity 
of the youth’s hate for the Flying W foreman. 
Whatever the improbability of the youth’s being 
able to keep his promise, there was no doubt as to 
the integrity of his desire. 

Pondering over the matter, Dane led his horse out¬ 
side, and left him near the barn, while he went 
to the cook shack for a sandwich or two to take 
with him on his ride. He could not deduce just 
what had inspired Fred’s intense hate for Bunker. 
True, Bunker was causing trouble; he was Williams’ 
mainstay in the feud against the Diamond H; he 
was dangerous and ruthless. Had he at some time 
driven Fred Hughes out of Black Butte? Dane was 


IN THE BRAKES 


7 1 


inclined to accept the latter theory. Fred was young 
and such a proceeding would seem terribly degrading 
and ignominious to him. He would not stop to reason 
that it would not be cowardice on his part to back 
down before a man who was notoriously fast with 
his shooting iron and not particular upon whom 
he used it. Such had been the reputation of Bunker, 
as described to Dane in town. 

Securing the sandwiches he returned to his horse 
and was wrapping them in his slicker pack when he 
heard a man shouting at the rear of the barn. He 
ran through the barn and found Servais, the 
wrangler, standing in a corral shouting at a horse 
which was running westward under the lee of the 
bluffs. It was the big, black stallion, Jupiter. 

“Took him out in the corral, an’ he broke through,” 
cried Servais. “Look at him go! An’ Eve got to 
breeze after him an’ bring him back.” 

“I’ll go along,” Dane volunteered, as the wrangler 
went for his horse. 

Shortly afterward they rode rapidly in the direc¬ 
tion taken by the stallion, and soon they saw him 
cutting through the lower range toward the trees. 

Servais was angry and drove his steel into his 
horse’s flanks. “He’s makin’ for the brakes,” he 
shouted to Dane. “There’s a bunch of wild mares 
down there an’ he’s been there before. We’ve got 
to head him off.” 

But that was easier said than done. The stallion, 
seeing them coming at a mad gallop in pursuit, in¬ 
creased his pace. He made a magnificent spectacle, 
running as swift as the wind, with mane and tail 


72 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


streaming. Coming to a small ditch, which ran 
through the range, he leaped gracefully and literally 
seemed to flow through the air to a landing far on 
the other side. He tossed his head and went on. 

Dane caught his breath in admiration of the 
splendid beast. He knew the stallion was Servais’ 
especial pride, and that the small, dark man not 
only could handle him under most conditions, but 
was also the only person who had ever ridden him. 
He saw Servais was worried, and he suspected that 
the man, being an excellent wrangler of horses, 
might not be an expert with the rope; for specialties 
obtain in the cattle country as well as anywhere else. 

The stallion plunged through a windbreak of trees 
at the lower edge of the range and cut across the 
bottom in a southwesterly direction, with Dane and 
Servais following some distance behind. Neither of 
their horses was a match for the stallion in point 
of speed, although both were fast mounts. As they 
spurred their horses to their greatest speed, Dane 
realized that there could be no horse in that country 
which could run with the big, black stallion. He 
even slowed up and looked back at them, as if 
taunting them, and then he sped on. 

It now was apparent that the stallion was indeed 
making for the brakes; and, as he was running in a 
straight line, cutting toward the southwest corner of 
the bottom land near the visionary line between the 
two ranches, it seemed probable that he was heading 
for a trail which led into the bad lands. 

This proved to be the case; for, when the stallion 
disappeared behind the outlying tumbled ridges of the 


IN THE BRAKES 73 

brakes, and they reached the place, they found a 
dim trail leading south. 

“We’re in for it now,” shouted Servais. “We’ll 
have to go some to get him in there. But we’ve got 
to get him,” he added, as he guided his horse into 
the trail and galloped along its twisting way. And 
Dane realized that the wrangler possibly never would 
return to the Diamond H unless he got the stallion. 

It now was dangerous going, with roots and rocks 
in the trail and overhanging branches leaning low. 
Coming out into a clearing from a ravine, Servais 
brought his horse to a rearing halt on the edge of 
a white-lipped, treacherous soap hole. 

“He wouldn’t get into one of these, would he?” 
asked Dane, peering ahead. 

“Him?” replied the wrangler scornfully. “He’s 
too wise for that! He’ll likely lead us along a ways 
an’ then lose us.” 

They skirted the soap hole carefully and plunged 
on along the trail on the farther side, which now 
led up the side of a ridge. When they gained 
the top they could see the stallion some distance 
ahead. He had slowed his gait and was trotting 
along, superbly confident and disdainful of any pur¬ 
suit. They followed down the ridge, and at the bot¬ 
tom Servais checked his horse. 

“I hear you’re a fair hand with a rope,” he said 
to Dane. There was a pleading note in his voice, 
and Dane realized that, if he could succeed in roping 
the stallion, he would earn the lasting gratitude of the 
wrangler. 


74 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“I’ll try to snare him,” he said simply and pushed 
his horse past Servais. 

Now in the lead, Dane held the pace down a bit. 
He knew that the stallion would be off again at full 
speed, as soon as he heard the sounds of pursuit, 
or saw them. The trail had a soft-dirt bottom, and 
they proceeded with a minimum of noise, except 
where they had to cross stretches of gravel, and at 
such places and where they encountered soap holes, 
Dane pulled his horse down to a walk. Mounting 
another ridge they saw the stallion almost directly 
below them. The big black was walking, shaking 
his head, on a piece of trail strewn with boulders. 

Dane loosed his rope for a throw and, putting 
the spurs to his horse, dashed down the slope reck¬ 
lessly, the rope whirling over his head. Just as he 
was about to throw, the widened noose caught on 
the projecting limb of a dead tree above the trail 
and dangled behind. The stallion trotted off down 
the trail, tossing his head as if in derision. 

“If you can get the rope on him, he’ll stand,” 
called Servais. “He ain’t bad; he was excited this 
mornin’, since he hadn’t been out for a spell. Guess 
it was my fault for foolin’ with him,” he added in 
a worried voice. 

Dane coiled his rope and urged his mount in rapid 
pursuit of the runaway. They didn’t catch sight of 
the stallion again for some time. The trail had 
turned toward the west and wherever it intersected 
another dim path, Dane halted and made sure of 
the stallion’s tracks. 

As they rode through a ravine between two high 


IN THE BRAKES 


75 


ridges, a shadow came creeping over them. Dane 
looked up to see that the sky was filled with clouds, 
and that the northern horizon was black. The wind 
began to pick up, and the branches of the stunted 
pines on the higher pieces of ground twisted and 
waved in grotesque fashion. He increased his pace, 
with Servais pounding along close behind. The 
trail wound steadily westward, and Dane reflected 
that they must be nearing a point directly north of 
the place where Gordon Hughes had said there was 
a ford across the river. Could the stallion be making 
for the ford? 

Dane didn’t doubt but what the big horse could 
swim the swollen river; but the current would be 
certain to carry him downstream, and there was the 
danger of cut banks shutting him off, or quicksands 
swallowing him. He was too valuable a piece of 
horseflesh to lose, but Dane thought only of the 
splendid animal. Not only did he want to save him 
in the interests of the Diamond H, but for his own 
love of a good horse. 

At the top of the next rise they were rewarded 
with another glimpse of the stallion trotting ahead. 
The wind was blowing harder, and the animal held 
his nose high in the air, scenting the approach of 
the storm. The sun now was obscured by the veil 
of clouds which had swept across the sky from the 
northwest, and in that direction an inky-black cur¬ 
tain was rising above the mountaintops. 

They swept along the trail through another ravine 
and across an open space into a grove of poplars. 
At the farther end of this grove they emerged sud- 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


76 

denly upon a meadow, and Dane reined in his horse, 
pointing ahead. The stallion was standing, snorting, 
in the center of the meadow. Some little distance 
ahead of him stood an old man, his white hair 
and long, white beard flying in the wind. He held 
out a hand and appeared to be speaking to the big 
black. Dane walked his horse ahead, and the rope 
whirled over his head. 

In another moment the stallion reared back, with 
both front feet high off the ground, twisted about, 
and lunged for the southern edge of the meadow, 
as Dane’s lariat sang. The wide loop shot straight 
for its mark, hovered an instant in mid-air a space 
ahead of the plunging stallion, then settled down 
over the animal’s head. 

As the noose tightened about his neck, the stallion 
came to a stop, looking about, as if bewildered, 
and shaking his head doubtfully. 

“There he is! Go after him,” Dane shouted. 
“He’s got his halter on, anyway,” he added, turning 
in his saddle toward Servais. 

The little wrangler was sitting his horse, with 
popping eyes staring down the range. 

“The hermit!” he ejaculated in a choking voice. 
And to Dane’s astonishment he crossed himself. 

Then he seemed suddenly aware of the issue at 
hand and, quickly dismounting, walked toward the 
stallion, with a halter rope in his hand. Dane looked 
down the range, but saw no one in sight. Servais 
crooned to the stallion, as he approached him, snapped 
the halter rope to the halter which the horse wore, 
and stroked the animal gently on the neck. Then 


IN THE BRAKES 


77 


he led him back to his own horse and began to 
remove his saddle. 

“What’re you going to do—ride the stallion?” 
asked Dane in growing wonder. 

Servais nodded, and, while Dane looked on in 
astonishment, he saddled the big black and hung his 
horse’s bridle on the saddle horn. 

“My horse’ll follow,” he explained, quite as a 
matter of course. “We’ll have to hurry to get back 
before the storm breaks,” he added with a look of* 
concern at the darkening heavens. 

“Wait,” called Dane. “Who’d you say that old 
fellow was who stopped the stallion?” 

Servais’ face clouded and he looked hastily down 
the meadow. “He’s gone,” he said with relief. 
“That was the hermit of the bad lands. Nobody 
knows where he lives or how, an’ there ain’t been 
many who’s seen him. They’ll think I’m lyin’ 
when I tell ’em at the ranch, but you saw him too, 
didn’t you?” 

Dane nodded. He was amused at the other’s 
agitation, but nevertheless he felt an impelling 
curiosity. 

“Is that all you know about him?” he asked, 
riding slowly to the wrangler’s side. 

The other grimaced and looked at Dane rather 
sheepishly. 

“He’s supposed to be a spirit,” he said in a low 
voice, looking about the meadow. 

Dane laughed outright at this, for it was plain 
that the little wrangler was of a very superstitious 
mind, although, for that matter, the appearance of 


78 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


the old man had been rather startling, and Dane 
realized he was a character to conjure with because 
of his mode of life. 

“Where’d he go?” Dane asked the wrangler, 
searching the range with his gaze for a sign of 
the old man. 

“I dunno,” said Servais; “an’ I don’t care. I ain’t 
lost any hermits! We better get goin’, or the storm'll 
hit us sure.” 

“Go ahead,” said Dane. “I’m goin’ to look aroun’ 
a bit” 

He watched in admiration, as the little wrangler 
rubbed the big stallion’s nose; and then without an 
instant’s hesitation Servais mounted and was off, 
the stallion trotting along the back trail. They soon 
disappeared in the grove of poplars. 

Dane rode to the lower end of the meadow 
and found a dim trail leading through another clump 
of trees. He could see another small open space 
ahead through the branches, and he was just about 
to emerge, when he checked his horse suddenly and 
sat in the saddle, peering between the leaves. He 
saw a small clearing, at the upper side of which 
was a tiny cabin. He pursed his lips in surprise, 
for it was the same cabin he had seen from the 
ridge and later visited the morning following his 
night in the bad lands. And standing before the 
open door of the cabin was the old, white-haired 
man—the hermit. A horseman was sitting his 
mount before him. Dane’s lids narrowed over his 
eyes. The horseman was Matt Bunker, foreman 
of the Flying W. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE HERMIT 

TN the shelter of the poplars and the tall grasses 
* which grew among them, Dane watched the strange 
scene in the little clearing before the cabin. The 
old man was hatless, his long, white hair and beard 
waving in the wind. Faded overalls and jumper 
clung to his loose frame, and Dane could see, even 
at that distance, that his feet were bare, although 
browned to the color of old leather. He was 
gesticulating, and now and then he would stamp a 
foot, as if in childish rage. He looked very old, 
and his face appeared white. It would not take 
any great exertion of one’s imagination to see in 
him a likeness to a spirit, as the wrangler, Servais, 
had hinted. 

Bunker was leaning down from his saddle. He 
appeared to be threatening the hermit, for his atti¬ 
tude was aggressive and hostile. He apparently was 
talking loudly, but the wind in the leaves prevented 
Dane from hearing anything that was being said. 

Once the hermit pointed south, and Bunker’s gaze 
flashed in that direction for an instant. Then he 
waved the butt of his quirt at the hermit and half 
turned his horse. He said something over his 
shoulder, flipped the butt of the quirt into his palm, 
and cracked the short lash past the hermit’s face. 


8 o 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


With a few more words, accompanied by energetic 
nods of the head, he dug in his spurs and galloped 
across the clearing, disappearing in the timber at 
the foot of a ridge opposite. 

The twilight preceding the breaking of the storm 
had descended and the wind was howling through the 
sparse tree growth and hurtling the ridges. In 
the north sky the lightning already was flashing— 
white tongues that licked at the black curtain of 
cloud. It was the first electrical storm of the season 
which was racing out of the north and west, sound¬ 
ing its warning in rumbling rolls of distant thunder. 

Dane saw that the dim trail he had followed 
into the poplars petered out among the trees into a 
dozen faint paths which blended with the trampled 
grass of the clearing. Little wonder he hadn’t 
found a trail at this point, when he had inspected 
the clearing on that day after he had followed 
the girl, Marie, to the edge of the bad lands. 

But the pursuit of the stallion had shown him a 
direct trail to the clearing, and it had resulted in his 
ascertaining who inhabited the little cabin. Now 
the presence of Bunker convinced him that there 
was another trail leading to the Flying W Ranch. 

The advent of the storm gave him a legitimate 
reason for visiting the hermit. He would ask for 
shelter. He rode slowly into the clearing and headed 
for the cabin. As he approached, the old man came 
running out with a rifle in his hands. He brought 
its stock to his shoulder and covered Dane, as the 
latter halted his horse before him, astonished. 


THE HERMIT 


81 


Dane started to speak a word in greeting, just 
as there came a vivid flash of lightning, followed by 
a deafening crash of thunder. The old man dropped 
the gun on the ground and stood as if stunned, 
staring at Dane with eyes which were glittering dots 
of black. Then he groped with his hands, ran 
back into the doorway and motioned for Dane to 
come in, as the rain began to fall in sheets. 

Dane unsaddled and took the bridle off the bay 
and turned him loose, knowing the horse would go 
in under the trees and graze. He hurried inside, 
carrying his saddle and bridle, as he saw no sign 
of a barn. The old man was busy pulling thick 
curtains of burlap down over the window. He lit a 
lamp and, hurrying to the door, closed it and fastened 
it securely. His hands were shaking, and he was 
mumbling to himself. 

Dropping his saddle and bridle near the door, 
Dane surveyed the interior of the cabin. There 
was a bunk on the farther side; a table was under 
the window, with a stove in the corner beyond 
the door; a curtain was pulled across the corner at 
the foot of the bunk, where some clothes doubtless 
were hung; a bench stood on the side opposite the 
window, with three straight-backed, homemade chairs. 
Dane sank down in one of these, watching the dim 
shadows from the lamp play upon the walls, as the 
wind sifted in through cracks in the chinking. 

The old man sat upon the edge of the bunk, peer¬ 
ing with bright, reddened eyes about the dim room. 
Dane thought his teeth were chattering. He was 


82 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


clasping and unclasping his thin, bony, shaking 
hands. He curled back his lips against his yellow 
teeth, and his bare toes beat a restless tattoo against 
the rough boards of the floor. 

Even with the window darkened by its coverings 
and the lamp lit, flashes of lightning could still be 
sensed, and the booming artillery of the storm 
seemed to shake the cabin. With each terrific crash 
of thunder the hermit would look at Dane out of 
frightened eyes. The thunder and the roar of wind 
and rain made speech impossible, as the mighty fury 
of the storm was unleashed. 

Although he could not see it, Dane knew that 
the lightning flashes played incessantly, for the echoes 
of one clash of thunder did not have time to die 
away before there was another crash. The rain 
was falling on the roof with the force of a cloud¬ 
burst, and the cracking of branches torn asunder 
by the wind could be heard in momentary lulls, 
when the storm seemed to pause briefly for a fresh 
outburst of even greater ferocity. 

The old man cowered on the bunk, while Dane 
watched him and wondered. His abject fear of the 
storm was pitiful. And Dane sensed that the hermit 
was glad of his company at this moment. Then he 
began to doubt. The clutching fingers, the chatter¬ 
ing teeth, and the twitching toes might well be 
caused by extreme nervousness. But the look in 
the eyes! 

He regarded the hermit narrowly. It hardly 
seemed within reason that a man should be a prey 


THE HERMIT 


83 


to such terror of a storm, even though the storm 
be a bad one, as in this instance. There was some¬ 
thing about the old man’s eyes which fascinated 
and chilled him; it was more than the wide-eyed 
glimmer of fear. Dane imagined it was the piercing 
gleam and cunning glitter of insanity. Perhaps the 
old hermit was mad! 

But Bunker hadn’t been afraid of him; nor had 
he seemingly treated him with the tolerant and sooth¬ 
ing tactics ordinarily adopted toward a demented 
person. Why had Bunker been angry? 

The ferocity of the storm now began suddenly 
to diminish, as is the rule with electrical disturb¬ 
ances in the prairie country. The thunder was less 
violent and began to rumble distantly. The wind 
abated, and the downpour suddenly slackened until 
the rain merely beat upon the roof, with the gentle¬ 
ness characteristic of a passing shower. Finally the 
thunder died to a distant muttering. 

“It’s all over,” said Dane, as cheerfully as pos¬ 
sible. 

The hermit looked at him doubtfully, stared for 
a moment at the floor, and then went to the window 
and pushed aside the curtain. It was now bright 
outside. The trees on the slope of the ridge were 
a vivid green. The rain ceased with the same abrupt¬ 
ness with which it had come, and a ray of brilliant 
sunlight shot down through a rift in the lifting 
clouds. 

Dane opened the door, and the first thing he saw 
was the old man’s rifle, lying on the ground where he 
had dropped it. Dane went out and secured the 


S 4 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


rifle, brought it back to the cabin, and put it in 
the corner opposite the stove. 

The hermit paid no attention to it. 

“You live here?” Dane asked. 

The old man looked at him vaguely; then his gaze 
shifted to the clearing, which now was again flooded 
with sunlight. The trees were dripping diamonds, 
and Dane saw his horse feeding on the farther side 
of the meadow. 

“You live here?” Dane persisted, as the hermit 
came to the door and looked out. 

“Yes, this is where I live,” replied the old man 
in a matter-of-fact tone to Dane’s surprise. “Whose 
horse was that?” the hermit asked eagerly. 

Dane assumed that he referred to the stallion he 
had seen in the meadow to the east. “Belongs to the 
Diamond H Ranch,” he replied. 

“Nice horse,” the hermit commented shortly. “It 
was a bad storm,” he added, caressing his silky, 
white beard. “Very bad storm.” 

Dane shrugged. He felt that his suspicions about 
the hermit’s mentality were at least partially correct. 
And he was curious. 

“Who was the man on horseback who was talking 
to you just before I came?” he asked, intending to 
feel the hermit out. 

The old man looked at him quickly, with fear 
shining in his eyes. He wet his withered lips with 
his tongue. 

“He is the master,” was the puzzling reply. “He 
lets me live here. But he doesn’t know,” the hermit 


THE HERMIT 85 

cackled; “an’ he’s afraid. I can tell. I know much, 
I do, and all the wild ones are my friends.” 

Dane shook his head impatiently. It was all so 
much dribble. The hermit was crazy. And why 
shouldn’t he be, living there in the solitude, a slave 
to his fear of storms, alone with his warped thoughts. 

However, the word “master” conveyed something. 
Bunker must have some kind of a hold on the old 
man. And for what purpose? 

“Why does he let you live here?” he asked with¬ 
out expecting an intelligent answer. 

“Because he has to,” the hermit retorted fiercely. 
“Only he don’t know that.” 

Dane reflected that this was reasonable. But 
did the old man mean it, as he had expressed it? 

At this moment two horses broke through the 
timber at the right of the clearing and trotted a 
few paces toward the cabin. The hermit stepped 
out toward them, but they seemed to be looking 
at Dane. In a flash they whirled and dashed away 
out of sight. The hermit looked at Dane with blaz¬ 
ing eyes, as the latter realized that the horses were 
wild mustangs which evidently ranged at will in 
the bad lands. 

The fierce look in the hermit’s eyes of faded blue 
died away. He appeared to inspect Dane thoroughly 
for the first time, and Dane found himself uneasy 
under the old man’s searching scrutiny. 

He thought it queer that the hermit did not 
ask him his name, or where he was from. Yet on 
second thought this did not seem queer, either. His 
own desolate domain was evidently sufficient for 


86 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


the hermit; his interest more than likely began and 
ended there. Yet the whole business was so un¬ 
usual that Dane found himself probing his mind 
for some kind of a solution. It all resolved into 
one thing: The hermit was crazy, and Matt Bunker 
was in some way taking advantage of him for reasons 
of his own. 

“Have you seen any stray cattle aroun’ here?” 
he asked. 

“No/’ snapped the hermit. 

But Dane was instantly alert; for he had seen 
a look of cunning come into the other’s eyes. 

“You haven’t seen any cattle a-tall?” he demanded 
sternly. 

“Of course not,” returned the hermit, and he 
turned and strode to the cabin. 

Dane followed him. He stood undecided and 
looked on curiously, while the old man built a fire 
in the stove. Then the hermit pulled aside a piece 
of carpet in the center of the floor and opened a 
trapdoor. Dane caught his breath in astonishment. 
A small cellar was revealed. He stepped forward 
to look into it wonderingly. Hanging from a sus¬ 
pended wire were several hams and fully a dozen 
slabs of bacon, while below were case after case of 
canned goods and other provisions. There was a 
bin of potatoes. Enough supplies to keep a man 
like the hermit for more than a year! 

The hermit climbed out with some things, shut 
the trapdoor, and replaced the bit of carpet. 

Dane kept back the question which was on his lips. 


THE HERMIT 87 

‘‘Will you show me the trail to the Flying W?” 
he asked at last. 

“There is no trail/' answered the hermit, busying 
himself at the stove. 

“But that man who was here rode off toward the 
west," said Dane in an irritated voice. 

“There is no trail," repeated the hermit fiercely. 

Dane shrugged in resignation. Apparently any¬ 
thing to be learned from the hermit was to be 
learned accidently by the tedious process of baiting 
him in an irrelevant conversation. But Dane felt 
he had learned something of value. The presence 
of Bunker, the large amount of supplies in the 
hermit’s cabin, the old man’s quick denial of any 
knowledge of cattle or trails, convinced Dane that 
the cabin in the bad lands was the center of some 
kind of activity which could best be carried on in 
such a wild and little-visited section. 

And he hadn’t forgotten about the missing Dia¬ 
mond H stock. He left the cabin with his saddle 
and bridle and went to his horse. Later he rode 
to the west side of the clearing and explored the 
ridge on that side. He could find no trail, although 
he was sure one was there somewhere. He gave it 
up finally and crossed the clearing to the trees on the 
west side, where he speedily picked up the trail down 
which he and Servais had pursued the stallion. He 
had no trouble in following this trail to its outlet 
from the bad lands. It was afternoon when he 
reached the ranch. He saw Servais in the barn. 

“Got soaking wet," grinned Servais, and Dane 
knew he had the little wrangler for a friend. 


CHAPTER IX 


BUSINESS 

I T was from old Marty that Dane learned some¬ 
thing of the baffling history of the hermit. No 
one knew the old man’s name, it seemed. He had 
appeared in the country many years before, had 
worked for a time on the Flying W before Williams 
had bought the ranch, and then had disappeared. 
Later a man answering his description had been seen 
in the bad lands. Marty had never seen the hermit, 
but he was of the opinion that he was the same 
man who once had worked on the Flying W. 

But even Marty’s attempts to explain the presence 
of the hermit in the brakes of the river were uncon¬ 
vincing. And Dane, for reasons of his own, did 
not make known what he had seen, or did he give 
any details of his visit to the cabin in the clearing. 
He approached Gordon Hughes that evening, how¬ 
ever, with the request that he run about a hundred 
head of cattle in the bottoms, near the contested strip 
between the two ranches. 

“You haven’t lost any more cattle?” he asked the 
stockman. 

“Not that I know of,” Hughes replied, frowning. 
“But I ain’t been missin’ ’em in very big bunches, 
an’ maybe some more are gone. I can’t count 
every day or two. I’m runnin’ the beeves east 
an’ will take ’em on the north range toward 


BUSINESS 


89 

the springs next week. We’re through brand¬ 
ing down here an’ have got to head north, 
anyway. What’s your idea in puttin’ some over 
there in the bottoms?” 

“That’s where the most of ’em turned up missing, 
wasn’t it?” Dane countered. 

The stockman nodded with a look of under¬ 
standing. 

“Well, we’ll give ’em a chance to get some more, 
an’ maybe they’ll trip themselves up,” said Dane. 

Hughes appeared on the point of asking a ques¬ 
tion, but he merely shrugged instead and favored 
Dane with a searching glance. 

“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll put a mixed 
herd over there to-morrow. You’ll have to keep 
an eye on ’em yourself, for we’ll be on the north 
range.” 

Dane agreed and sought the bunk house. He 
didn’t walk up on the bench this night, for he 
believed that Esther Hughes was watching him and 
might join him. He told himself that he didn’t 
want to talk to her or listen to her new-fangled 
notions about the West. And she had said she be¬ 
lieved she hated him. So much the better. He had 
no time to bother with women, especially with women 
who were trying to balance the effete opinions of the 
East against the traditional judgment of the West. 

Dane went out in the morning and helped Gordon 
Hughes drive the bunch of cattle into the bottoms 
west of the ranch buildings. When they were re¬ 
turning they saw a small car coming along the road 
from town. Hughes knit his brows in a scowl. 


90 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“That’s Stevens, from the American Bank in 
Black Butte,” he said shortly. “I wonder what he 
wants.” 

Dane could think of no reply, so he kept silent. 
But he decided to stick around the ranch that after¬ 
noon. 

As Gordon Hughes rode on to the house, Dane, 
dismounting near the barn, saw a small man striding 
toward the porch. This, he assumed, was Sam 
Stevens, the banker from Black Butte. He walked 
nervously, and, as he removed his hat to wipe his 
forehead, Dane saw that he was bald, and that his 
face was a pale, pasty color. He was looking about 
with quick, darting glances, apparently missing none 
of the orderly details of the ranch’s appearance. 

Dane turned to put up his horse, as he saw Hughes 
dismount and greet the banker at the porch. 

“How’d you happen to come out?” boomed the 
rancher. “Ain’t none of my paper due yet, is there 
Stevens ?” 

“Not quite,’' 1 replied the banker, nervously offering 
a lukewarm hand. “But I thought we’d better have 
a little talk.” 

“Sure,” said Hughes, looking at the other closely. 
“How’d you like the looks of the place?” 

Stevens’ face brightened. “First rate,” he an¬ 
swered, nodding. “Looks good. Cattle picking up 
and feed first class, I’d say. You’ll have lots of 
hay this year. Now if we only get a decent winter 
-” He cut off his speech with a sigh. 

“Bound to get one this year,” said Hughes heartily, 
pulling out a chair for his guest and sitting down 



BUSINESS 


91 


with him. “The weather’s got to average up in three 
years out of four.” 

“I hope so,” said the banker with a gloomy look. 
“Last two years have put the banks in awful bad, 
Gordon.” 

“An’ they’ve hit us fellows harder’n the banks,” 
said Hughes quickly. “But prices are goin’ up, an’ 
the cattle are doin’ well; so we’ll pan out all right. 
My fall shipment will leave me sittin’ pretty, an’ 
next year, with any luck at all, I’ll pretty near clear.” 

“I hope so,” said the banker again. “But un¬ 
fortunately it is a case of needing cash badly with 
the banks. We have been very liberal in the matter 
of loans, as you know, and we are going to have 
to insist that obligations be met promptly.” 

“Now why do you come to me with all this?” 
Gorden Hughes demanded with a frown. “Do you 
figure there is any question about my meetin’ my 
obligations? An’ don’t talk about the banks. Your 
American is the only bank I’m doin’ business with.” 

“Quite so,” agreed the banker. “That’s fair. And 
it’s in the affairs of the American that I’m interested, 
of course. I’m looking after the interests of my 
bank, quite naturally. And I haven’t come to you 
alone; I’m visiting all who have heavy loans with the 
American. It is, of course, purely a matter of 
business.” 

“When is my first paper due?” asked Hughes with 
a scowl. 

“You didn’t have to buy hay this year until early 
in February,” said the banker. “But you secured 
yourself for that hay in January—January the fif- 


92 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


teenth, I believe. You will remember I told you 
I couldn’t make the note for more than six months. 
It was for six thousand, if I remember correctly. 
That note is due the fifteenth of next month, 
Gordon.” 

“An’ what of it?” said the rancher impatiently. 
“That isn’t a marker to what I’ve borrowed. You 
see how the range is, an’ how the cattle are lookin’. 
What’re you worryin’ about?” 

“About cash, Gordon,” replied the banker in a 
low voice. “It’s cash I need. We’ve got to get in 

these loans; we must-” 

“Wait a minute, Stevens,” Gordon Hughes broke 
in. “Do I understand you’re tryin’ to tell me that 
you’ve got to have that six thousand by July 
fifteenth? Is that what you’re tryin’ to say?” 

“That’s about it, Gordon,” said the banker sooth¬ 
ingly. “Now wait a minute. Don’t become angry, 
or we’ll never get anywhere. I want to explain 
something to you. You stockmen never can seem to 
understand what a bank is up against. Take your 
own case for instance. When you bought the short¬ 
horns, which I advised against-” 

“There you go, harpin’ about the shorthorns,” 
Hughes interrupted in a loud voice. “That bunch 
of shorthorns is worryin’ you to death, I take it. 
Well, we wasn’t havin’ such bad winters when I 
bought them cattle, an’ I had more hay than 
I could use. I know they’re not good rustlers an’ 
have to be fed, but I had the feed for ’em. An’ 
they make a bigger beef in the end. I’m goin’ 
to start cleaning up on the shorthorns this fall, 




BUSINESS 


93 


an’ if it’ll ease your mind any, I can tell you I’m 
off ’em an’ am goin’ to put in all Herefords.” 

“That’s right,” nodded the banker. “I’m glad 
to hear it—mighty glad. Very good judgment, be¬ 
cause you can’t always depend on the weather or your 
hay crop, an’ a white face will find feed where a 
shorthorn will starve. 

“But, nevertheless, when you bought the short¬ 
horns I loaned you thirty dollars a head on ’em. 
That was all right at the time, and the security 
was good. Then came the first bad winter when 
you had to feed, and hay went up out of sight, 
and I had to loan nearly fifteen dollars a head more 
on those cattle to protect my security. And you had 
losses. By the next spring I had loaned, counting 
the reduction in the herd, something like fifty-five 
dollars a head on those cattle. And you had other 
cattle which had to be fed.” 

“Dang it! Can I regulate the weather?” stormed 
Hughes. “Was it my fault I had to feed? You 
was protectin’ yourself when you was protectin’ me.” 

“That’s true,” Stevens agreed. “An’ I’ve had to 
protect you and myself to the tune of twenty dollars 
a head more since,” he added grimly. “I’ve got 
around seventy-five dollars a head loaned on those 
cattle right this minute.” 

“An’ I’ll get better than fifty thousand dollars 
clear for the beeves this fall,” retorted Hughes. 
“That’s more’n you’ve got loaned on the whole 
bunch—almost.” 

“Exactly,” nodded the banker. “I know all that. 
But I just wanted to show you how the banks— 


94 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


how the American got into the thing over its head, 
you might say. We’ve got too much loaned out, 
and we’ve got to protect ourselves. I’m merely 
warning you, Gordon, and others, that all obliga¬ 
tions to the bank will have to be met promptly. 
We’re in too deep.” 

“Sure you’re in deep,” snorted Hughes. “An’ 
who’s goin’ to pull you out? I’ll bet right now 
that the bulk of your loans ain’t to stockmen at all, 
but to the dry farmers up north an’ out west there. 
They was goin’ to turn this whole range into a 
big wheat field, an’ everybody was goin’ to get too 
rich to live. You swallered it, an’ you ain't seen a 
crop yet!” 

“The dry-land farmers have had three years of 
drought, just like you’ve had three bad winters 
for stock.” 

“Is this a farmin’ country?” demanded Hughes. 
“Did you ever see any crops raised up here? Did 
you ever see anybody tryin’ to raise wheat here 
until those crazy homesteaders came in ? Say, 
Stevens, I happen to know that you loaned thirty 
thousand dollars to a farmer to lease an’ work 
an’ seed two thousand acres of leased land, two 
years in succession, an’ you ain’t got a dollar back 
yet! An’ you ain’t got no security! But you’ve got 
security with the stockmen, an’ the stockmen is the 
ones that’ll pull you out of the hole, although it’ll 
take three years to do it.” 

The banker was frowning. “There isn’t a bank 
north of the Missouri that didn’t try to help the 
farmers when they came in,” he said irritably. “And 


BUSINESS 95 

most of my loans in that direction are secured by 
deeded land.” 

“An’ what’s the land worth?” cried Hughes. 
“The land’s good for nothin’ but stock raisin’, and 
the last three years has proved that. An’ land ain’t 
worth'no thirty or forty dollars an acre for range.” 

“That’s beside the point,” snapped the banker. 
“I didn’t come here to discuss that. Anyway I’m 
most concerned with those loans which are best 
secured. Your loan is one of them. There’s just 
one point that I’ll have to insist on being cleared up 
before I renew the note due July fifteenth. I sup¬ 
pose you’ll want it renewed?” 

“Of course I’ll want it renewed,” said Hughes. 
“I want it renewed until after I make my fall ship¬ 
ment. None of the rest of my paper falls due before 
October first. What is it you want cleared up? You 
want me to sign a new note now?” 

“No,” smiled the banker; “but I want the boundary 
between the Diamond H and the Flying W adjusted.” 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Hughes. 

“The boundary line between the Diamond H and 
the Flying W must be definitely established,” said 
Stevens firmly. 

“What in thunder has the boundary got to do 
with my business with the bank, Stevens?” Gordon 
Hughes thundered. 

“It’s a matter of protecting my security,” ex¬ 
plained Stevens in a hard voice. “The ranch is 
security for your loans as well as the cattle. But 
it isn’t particularly good security when its boundaries 
are not all established, and when there is a feud 


96 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


between the two ranches, and a feeling present which 
might make it unpleasant for any one who took 
over the ranch in—er—a case of necessity.” 

Gordon Hughes leaped to his feet. “Stevens, what 
are you tryin’ to do?” he demanded, stepping close 
to the banker, who rose hurriedly. 

“Exactly what I said—determine the boundary 
between the Diamond H and the Flying W for once 
and all. Establish that line, and I’ll extend your 
note due next month for three months more, which 
will give you a chance to ship. It’s almost the 
end of June now and I’d advise you to act quickly.” 

Hughes’ fists were clenched. His lips were com¬ 
pressed into a menacing white line. His eyes glittered 
dangerously. 

“There’s something behind this, Stevens,” he said 
hoarsely, as the banker hastily walked to the steps 
and down them. Then he went into the house without 
another word to the departing banker. Mrs. Hughes 
and Esther came into the little office in the front of 
the house to find Gordon Hughes strapping on his 
gun. 

“Why, Gordon!” said his wife, surprised. “Why 
are you putting on your gun?” She saw the look 
in his eyes. “Gordon, what is the matter?” 

He didn’t answer her, but strode toward the front 
door. 

“Gordon!” called Mrs. Hughes. “Where are you 
going?” 

“I’m goin’ to the Flying W,” said Hughes grimly, 
as he went out. 


CHAPTER X 


ACROSS THE LINE 

\V 7 ALKING to the bunk house, Dane was sur- 
* * prised when Gordon Hughes galloped past 
him, looking grimly ahead, and flashed past the 
barns and corrals and on toward the lower bottoms. 
He had noticed, too, that Hughes wore a gun for 
the first time since he had known him. The big 
stockman ordinarily went unarmed, although Dane 
had suspected this would not be the case when the 
rancher went up to the north range. 

As he turned again toward the bunk house, he 
saw Esther Hughes running toward him from the 
porch. Her hair was flying in the wind, her lips were 
parted, and her eyes shone with burning excitement. 

“Mr. Dane!” she called breathlessly and held a 
hand up toward him. 

He walked to meet her. 

“Get your horse/’ she cried, as she came up to 
him. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “Oh, I’m afraid 
something terrible is going to happen. Mother is 
worried to death, and we don’t know where Fred 
is—and it probably wouldn’t do any good if he was 
here.” 

She had started walking rapidly for the barn with 
Dane at her side. 

“Where are we goin’?” he inquired mildly. 


98 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“To get your horse. Oh, you must hurry. You 
must follow father as fast as you can!” 

Dane remembered Gordon Hughes riding madly 
toward the west. 

“Where has your father gone?” he asked, as they 
reached the barn, and he went in to saddle the bay. 

“He’s gone to the Flying W,” said the girl, 
following him. “You must hurry, and-—oh, Mr. 
Dane, do not let anything happen.” 

Dane whistled softly. “What’s he gone over there 
for?” he asked wonderingly. 

“Something the banker said, I guess,” replied 
Esther. “They were talking on the porch—Mr. 
Stevens and dad—and father got angry and put on 
his gun.” 

Her worried gaze flashed to the weapon at Dane’s 
side, and she turned half away. Then she swung 
about to confront him, as he tightened the saddle 
cinch and led the bay out of the stall. 

“You can catch up with him,” she said eagerly. 
“Maybe you can stop him from going there. It’s 
dangerous for dad to go to the Flying W. Fie 
must be going to see old man Williams, or maybe 
that horrid new foreman. Oh, try to stop him, 
and if you can’t stop him —help him!” 

Dane smiled at the excited girl. What a beauty 
she was under the stress of her emotion! 

“I reckon your dad knows what he’s goin’ over 
there for, an’ who he’s goin’ to see,” he said; “an’ 
I don’t figure I could stop him. But if he needs 
any help, well, I’m workin’ for him.” 

He swung lightly into the saddle. 


ACROSS THE LINE 


99 


“Go back to your mother,” he advised. “Gordon 
Hughes is no fool. I don’t reckon you’ve got 
much cause to worry about him.” 

There were tears of doubt in the girl’s eyes, but 
she looked at him gratefully. 

“Ride!” she called after him, as he touched the 
bay with his spurs, left the barn, and turned down 
toward the bottoms. 

She watched him out of sight, then turned and 
ran for the house where she could see her mother 
standing on the porch. 

Dane, as he rode westward, did not himself feel 
the confidence which he had endeavored to impart to 
the girl. Gordon Hughes was not riding to the 
Flying W on any peaceful mission. Esther’s refer¬ 
ence to the banker indicated that Stevens’ visit had in 
some way brought some phase of the trouble with 
the neighboring ranch to a head, and Hughes was 
riding to see about it. 

Dane didn’t regard the incident of Hughes taking 
his gun along as necessarily important. He naturally 
would go armed on hostile territory. And it was 
hardly probable Hughes and Williams would get to 
shooting. They should have too much sense for that. 
Bunker, of course, was an entirely different sort of 
person. He was a gun fighter and made no bones 
about it. But if Hughes met him, his good sense 
ought to prevail, for the rancher certainly knew he 
would be no match for the Flying W foreman 
in a fast gun play. 

When he reached the bottoms Dane could not see 
Hughes. Evidently the rancher’s horse was fast, 


100 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


and Dane remembered it was a large animal. In¬ 
spection had shown him that Hughes had an excellent 
strain of saddle horses on the Diamond H. 

Dane rode swiftly along the bottom until he 
reached the tall cottonwood which marked the logical 
dividing line between the two ranches. As he 
crossed the line, he turned south and passed through 
a big grove of cottonwoods and alders which shut 
off the view of the Flying W’s lower range. When 
he emerged from the trees he saw a herd of cattle 
to the left some distance ahead. And then he 
glimpsed Gordon Hughes riding at a fast pace to¬ 
ward this herd. 

Swinging to the left to be close to the tree growth 
which marked the beginning of the brakes, Dane 
rode in a semicircle toward the herd which plainly 
was Gordon Hughes’ objective. 

He saw the owner of the Diamond H ride south 
of the herd and pull up his horse near a rider who 
evidently was watching the cattle. He proceeded 
slowly and soon made out Hughes riding beyond the 
herd. Now he descried another horseman coming 
from the west. When Hughes met this rider he 
stopped again, and this time he did not ride on. 

Dane turned his horse into the timber to avoid 
being seen and slowly proceeded westward in the 
general direction of Hughes and the others who were 
sitting their horses on the bottom some distance out 
from the screen of timber. 

Gordon Hughes was looking steadily into the eyes 
of Oscar Williams, owner of the Flying W. If 


ACROSS THE LINE 


IOI 


Williams was surprised to meet the Diamond H 
owner on his property, he did not show it. He 
returned Hughes’ gaze with a coolly questioning 
expression He was a smaller man than Hughes, 
with a lean face, much wrinkled, blue eyes that were 
small and cruel; they gave one the impression of 
craftiness and the ability to hate without compromise. 
He was supposed to have come from the Southland. 
He was round-shouldered and sat his saddle with a 
pronounced stoop. He had a habit of lowering 
his head and looking out from under thin brows. 
He fussed with his bridle reins nervously, and he 
was armed. 

“Did Stevens see you to-day?” demanded Gordon 
Hughes coldly. 

“Yes,” replied Williams shortly. He had a high- 
pitched voice. 

“Suppose he made the same proposition to you 
that he made to me,” scowled Hughes. 

“Don’t know anything about propositions,” said 
Williams. “He said he wanted the ranch lines 
fixed up.” 

Hughes glared at him. “Wonder how he got that 
idea so suddenlike.” 

“Dunno,” said Williams, looking straight ahead. 
“It doesn’t bother me any.” 

“I don’t suppose you have to do any business 
with the bank,” flared Hughes. 

“I don’t aim to let him run my ranch for me,” 
said Williams. 

“Then I reckon you don’t care if the boundary 
is fixed up or not,” said Hughes, his eyes narrowing. 


102 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“I don’t need any fence to tell me where the line 
is,” replied Williams angrily. 

Hughes held his temper in check with difficulty. 
It was plain he was trying to keep whatever he 
was thinking to himself. 

“Look here, Williams,” he said finally, “this 
boundary business has got to be settled some time. 
We’re both losing time an’ money at present, run- 
nin’ our cattle away from the line an’ leaving a 
lot of good range untouched. There ain’t any sense 
to it. I reckon we’d be usin’ our heads if we split 
the difference in land in two an’ let it go at that. 
We’ve both got enough land, so we shouldn’t have 
to haggle over a hundred foot or so.” 

“I had that land surveyed—paid out good money 
to find where the line was, an’ I found I own the 
big spring up north,” Williams retorted. “I don’t 
aim to lose that spring.” 

“An’ I’ve had it surveyed, too,” said Hughes 
harshly, “an’ it was just the other way round. A 
survey can show anything, an’ you know it. There 
ain’t a cornerstone on a single one of those section 
lines. This country was all surveyed on horseback. 
Anyway we can both use that spring. If we split the 
strip, the line’ll go through it.” 

“Might all be, but if you was to sell the Diamond 
H, the next owner mightn’t be so agreeable,” sneered 
Williams. 

Hughes’ eyes flashed. “If you hadn’t said that , 
I might have give you the strip,” he declared. 
“You’ve made trouble ever since you’ve been in 
here, Williams. I reckon you’d like to drive me 


ACROSS THE LINE 


103 


out. You can’t do it. I’ve been here a long time, 
an’ I’m goin’ to stay. If you don’t want to come 
to an agreement about the boundary, I’ll settle it 
one way or the other for both of us. I’ll fence it!” 

“An’ be mighty careful where you build your 
fence,” cried Williams, his face darkening with 
passion. 

Dane, watching from the shelter of the trees 
directly south of the two men, saw Hughes’ horse 
side-step. His eyes were glued to the strange scene, 
and some of the loudly spoken words had reached 
his ears. He was leaning forward in his saddle, 
and suddenly a thin shadow floated over him; he felt 
the sting of a rope against his face. Next moment 
he was jerked from his horse to the ground. He 
heard the echo of shots. Then his head seemed to 
explode, and the world was blotted out by black 
oblivion. 

Gordon Hughes rode slowly up to the Diamond H 
ranch house on a lathered horse, spent by hard 
riding. Mrs. Hughes and Esther came out upon 
the porch, as he dismounted and looked at them 
wearily. 

“Gordon!” cried his wife. “What is the matter? 
Oh, what has happened?” 

The rancher turned a haggard face up to her. 

“I’ve killed Williams!” he said dully, as he 
mounted the steps and sank into a chair. 


CHAPTER XI 


MISSING 

Q TARING at the man in the chair, Esther Hughes 
^ and her mother stood as if stunned. The 
only sounds were the drone of the vagrant wind 
in the cottonwoods and the creak of the chair, 
as Gordon Hughes rocked slowly to and fro. Mrs. 
Hughes’ sister came out and, struck by the sinister 
aspect of the scene, stood near the doorway. 

“Don’t look at me that way,” said Hughes irritably. 
“It had to happen—Williams himself started it 
when he went for his gun.” 

“Oh, Gordon,” sobbed his wife, as she dropped 
on her knees by the arm of his chair. “Oh, why 
did you do it? I knew something dreadful would 
happen when you put on your gun. All this trouble! 
It isn’t worth it.” 

She couldn’t keep back the tears. Her sister 
went to her side and stood over her, laying a hand 
upon her head. 

“If that man Williams started it, it was his own 
fault,” said Esther with heat. 

She went to her father’s side. “I know you 
wouldn’t deliberately kill a man unless you had to, 
father,” she said consolingly. 

“Why, daddy, you’re bleeding!” 

Crimson drops were falling from Gordon Hughes’ 


MISSING 


105 

left hand which hung limp on the left side of his 
chair. 

“Just nicked,” he said with a vague look in 
his eyes. Evidently he still was thinking of his 
encounter with Williams on the Flying W range. 
“Don’t amount to anything; but if my horse hadn’t 
shied, I might have got it in the heart,” he added, 
compressing his lips grimly. 

“Are you shot, Gordon?” His wife was up 
in a minute and examining his left hand. 

“Come into the house, Gordon,” she said in a 
firm voice, her tears vanishing. “Your wound 
must be attended to. Come.” 

Gordon Hughes rose and walked slowly into the 
house. He was weary with the reaction from the 
excitement of the past few hours. He removed 
his coat and submitted without complaint to the 
ministrations of his womenfolk. 

Mrs. Hughes bared his left arm, disclosing a 
wound just above the elbow. 

“Thank God, it is just a flesh wound,” she said 
and busied herself cleansing it, applying an antiseptic 
and bandaging it tenderly and carefully. 

“There,” she said when she had finished. “Now 
you want a cup or two of strong coffee, Gordon, 
and in a little while you must eat something.” 

The shock of her husband’s announcement over, 
she had become practical. She went for the coffee 
which Hughes drank moodily. 

“Now tell us how it happened, Gordon,” said 
Mrs. Hughes. 

“It just happened like those things happen, that’s 


io6 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

all,” was the man’s reply. “Stevens told me this 
mornin’ I’d have to get the west boundary fixed up 
before he’d renew that note that’s due next month. 
I’ll bet Williams was behind it. He wanted the 
whole strip out west, because it’d give him the big 
spring up north. I’d have let him have it, but 
he went hintin’ aroun’, before I could tell him so, 
’bout my sellin’ the ranch maybe—only he meant I 
might lose the ranch.” Gordon Hughes’ face dark¬ 
ened wrathfully. 

“I know what now,” he declared loudly; “he 
wanted this place. I accused him of it after I 
told him I’d put a fence down the strip. Then 
there was some more words, an’ he went for his 
gun. I heard two shots besides my own, an’ Wil¬ 
liams dropped from his horse like a sack of bran. 
I guess he was dead, the way he looked. I came 
on home with a cow-puncher who was herdin’ cattle 
over there in the bottom.” 

“And where was Dane?” asked Esther who had 
been listening intently. 

“Dane?” Gordon Hughes looked puzzled. “I 
didn’t see Dane.” 

“Probably not,” said Esther with a queer smile. 
“I guess he wasn’t as anxious to go on the Flying 
W, as he tried to make me believe.” 

“Esther, what are you talking about?” demanded 
her father in a stern voice. 

“Daddy, when I saw you were going to the 
Flying W, I was afraid you’d get into serious 
trouble,” said Esther with spirit. “And I was afraid 
too, that they might try to take advantage of you 


MISSING 


107 


over there. I told Dane, got him to saddle his 
horse and follow you. He said if you needed any 
help, he was working for you. It looks like it, 
I must say.” 

“You had no business to do that, daughter,” said 
Gordon Hughes with a frown. “An’ Dane had 
no business following me. If I’d wanted him along 
I’d have asked him, myself.” 

“I guess he knew his business then, because it’s 
plain he didn’t follow you as he promised,” said 
the girl, her dark eyes flashing. “If he had been 
there, this thing might never have happened. Light¬ 
ning Dane!” she scoffed. “They better change that 
Lightning to Lingering. I believe he’s a bluff!” 

“What do you mean by that?” her father asked 
curiously. 

But Esther merely shrugged and evaded the 
question. Dane had failed her when she had asked 
him to do something which she thought was right 
in his line. And she couldn’t forget his remark 
about working for her father. The day’s events had, 
in her opinion, disproved that. If Bunker had been 
present at the meeting on the Flying W, her father 
most likely would have been killed. Perhaps Dane 
had thought Bunker would be there—perhaps. Her 
lips curled in scorn. 

“I wouldn’t put too much trust or confidence 
in Mr. Dane,” she said to her father. “He-” 

“Look here, Esther, don’t blame a man for mind¬ 
ing his own business,” Gordon Hughes interrupted. 
“He had no call to follow me onto that ranch, 
even if you did ask him to do it. He’s takin’ his 



io8 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

orders from me, an’ I didn’t hire him for no body¬ 
guard.” 

“What did you hire him for ?” Esther couldn’t 
resist asking. 

“That’s neither here nor there—now,” scowled 
Hughes. “Go out an’ find Servais. I think I saw 
him aroun’ the barn.” 

Esther suddenly again was cognizant of the seri¬ 
ousness of the situation. 

“Daddy, will they—will they be sending the 

sheriff?” she asked with a catch in her voice. 

“Go an’ get Servais,” roared her father. 

“Gordon!” exclaimed his wife aghast, as the girl 
went out. “Will they—will it be that?” 

“It likely will,” said Hughes grimly. “Ell prob¬ 
ably have to go up to the county seat for a day 
or two until the bail can be fixed. I don't see how 

they can bring a charge of-” He paused 

thoughtfully. “I reckon there’s still such a thing 

as self-defense in this country,” he added, “although 
that cow-puncher who was takin’ it in likely’ll swear 
to anything. It’s Williams’ own fault; but I’d 
rather the thing had ended some other way.” 

Servais came in shortly afterward, and Hughes 
sent him out to the main herds to bring back Shay, 
the cow boss, and Fred. Meanwhile he ordered old 
Marty to be on the lookout for Dane and to send 
him to the house as soon as he came in. 

With the arrival of Shay and Fred, the rancher 
began to give his orders for conducting the ranch 
during the period for which he expected to be away. 
He told Shay he would be in charge of the cattle. 


MISSING 


109 


Fred was to keep his eye on things about the house 
and buildings and to keep in communication with 
his father. Servais was to have charge of the 
horses. 

Even the most remote contact with the Flying W, 
or any of the Flying W men, was absolutely for¬ 
bidden. There must be no more trouble, Gordon 
Hughes pointed out sternly. 

Other details of the ranch management were gone 
into, and Hughes and Shay were in conference 
the remainder of the afternoon. The sputtering 

of the little ranch car was heard in the late after¬ 

noon, and Mrs. Hughes came into the office, a 
worried look on her face. 

“It’s Fred,” she said, as the pur of the motor 

died away in the distance; “he’s gone to Black 

Butte to find out what he can. I didn’t want him 
to go, but he insisted.” 

“I don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” said 
Hughes. “He’ll probably find the sheriff there 
when he gets in. Hasn’t Dane shown up yet?” 

His wife shook her head. 

“I can’t see, Gordon, why you rely on and seem 
to trust that man the way you do, when you know 
absolutely nothing about him,” she said. “It isn’t 
as if he was one of the old hands.” 

“I don’t have to have a man’s life history to hire 
him on this ranch,” said Hughes. “What’d we 
know about any of the men we’ve got when they 
first came? We only knew what they told us, an’ 
I didn’t ask ’em that. A man’ll show what he is 


no RIDER O’ THE STARS 

sooner or later, an’ I ain’t got no kick coming on 
Dane so far.” 

“I suppose you know he receives a peculiar 
respect from the other men,” said his wife. “If 
he is what they say he is, it’s only bidding for 
trouble to have him here.” 

“Mary,” said Hughes impatiently, “we ain’t left 
the old conditions behind yet. It may be different 
in the towns, since the homesteaders have come, but 
it ain’t much different out here. We’re still runnin’ 
cattle on a big scale, an’ there’s only one class of 
men as knows steers an’ horses an’ ropes an’ brand¬ 
ing irons an’ guns—an’ that ain’t the class that’ll 
ever turn this into a farming country.” 

Mrs. Hughes left the office with a sigh. More¬ 
over she knew what her husband had said was true. 
If anything, the last years of the open range were 
more dangerous than the first. 

At sundown Dane had not returned. Servais 
came back from a scouting expedition to the bottoms 
and near the Flying W, with the information that 
he had seen nothing of him. Marty appeared 
worried, which in itself was not a good sign. 

Hughes was annoyed and puzzled. Considering 
what he had learned from Esther he thought it 
queer he hadn’t seen Dane, and more puzzling 
that Dane hadn’t returned to the ranch. And he 
wanted to see him before he went away. 

They sat down to supper, but little was said during 
the meal. They were a silent crowd in the bunk 
house, too. The wranglers, wise in the ways of 
the range, anticipated trouble, although they could 


MISSING 


hi 


not predict how it would come. Loyalty to Gordon 
Hughes made them sympathetic for him. It was 
as if the shadow of tragedy had come over the 
ranch from an unexpected quarter. 

Dane had not returned when night fell. The 
lamps in the house had been lighted, and the family 
was in the sitting room when the car was heard 
rattling down the road. Fred Hughes entered soon 
afterward, removed his gloves and hat and tossed 
them on the table. His father was watching him 
with a question in his eyes. 

“Williams ain’t dead,” Fred announced shortly. 
“They’ve taken him to Conard in one of the stages.” 

Gordon Hughes straightened suddenly in his chair. 

His mother sighed with relief. “Is—is he badly 
hurt, Fred?” she asked anxiously. 

“Shot through the right shoulder an’ lung, I 
guess,” replied the boy. “Couldn’t find out much; 
everybody’s excited an’ talking. I don’t figure it’s 
so bad, though. Williams could ride in the seat.” 

He sat down before his father. 

“Dad, how was you sittin’ when Williams drew 
on you?” 

“Sittin’ same’s I am in front of you,” said 
Hughes with a frown; “ ’cept I was on a horse, 
an’ so was he. An’ my horse shied when he pulled 
his gun-” 

“Was you north of him or south of him, or 
how?” the boy interrupted. 

“Why—I—he was between me an’ the brakes. 
I was north of him. What you askin’ that for?” 



112 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“He was sittin’ with his back to the trees?” said 
the youth with a vague look. 

“Fred, tell us what you are talking about,” said 
his mother nervously. “Has the sheriff or anybody 
been notified?” 

“I don’t reckon so,” said Fred Hughes with a 
grin. “An’ I don’t figure they’ll be callin’ in the 
sheriff or anybody else for a while.” 

“Why do you say that?” his father demanded. 

“Because old Williams was shot in the back!” 
declared the boy. 

“In the back?” asked his father, bewildered. 

“In the right shoulder, just under the collar bone, 
from behind,” said Fred with emphasis. “Dad, 
your bullet never touched him, for that’s the only 
place he was hit. The bullet struck a bone an’ 
come out on the side, leavin’ a jagged hole. He 
lost a lot of blood. I got that straight from Brady 
at The Palace who knows what he’s talkin’ about. 
You can’t shoot any more, anyway, dad. An’ 
everybody knows you wouldn’t shoot a man in 
the back, no matter zvhat you had it in for him 
for.” 

Gordon Hughes was staring at his son with an 
incredulous expression. 

“It was somebody in the trees that shot Williams,” 
Fred went on. “An’ that ain’t all. He was shot 
with a soft-nosed bullet. The hole it made shows 
that. Whoever wanted to get him, wanted to get 
him right!” 

“From the trees?” Hughes muttered, wonderingly. 


MISSING 


113 

Fred nodded. “I guess we ain’t the only ones 
that’s got Williams’ number,” he said. 

“Did you see Dane in town?” his father asked. 

“No,” replied Fred, looking interested. “Isn’t 
he back yet?” 

Hughes shook his head, and a sudden silence 
fell over the group. 

“Tell Shay I’ll want three men besides him an’ 
Servais in the morning,” said the rancher, rising. 
“I’m goin’ to bed.” 

Long after the others slept, Esther Hughes sat 
at her window, looking out over the moonlit open 
space of prairie and bottom land, thinking. 


CHAPTER XII 


MYSTERY 

F ROM far, far away came the “feel” of throbbing 
sound, gaining in volume, preserving a monoto¬ 
nous rhythm—as accurate as though it were regulated 
by the beating of time. It continued for what 
seemed ages, now farther away, now nearer, then 
suddenly close at hand, and Dane opened his eyes. 

He was conscious first of a dull, aching pain 
in his head—in the back of his head and in his 
neck. He felt leaden, limp, spent. And he was 
fearfully thirsty. He twisted his head with a groan 
toward a faint light. He looked at this light without 
realizing what it was, as he strove to gather his 
shattered senses and his vague thoughts. 

Then he remembered. Esther Hughes first, and 
her request that he follow her father to the Flying 
W. He saw her face, excited, flushed, fearful, 
as she urged him to “Ride!” He recollected the 
two horsemen on the bottom, just beyond the fringe 
of trees, where he sat his mount, watching. He 
saw the horse of the man on the farther side move 
suddenly, felt the sting of the rope again, the jerk 
and fall to the ground; heard the sound of shots, 
and then the awakening and the excruciating pain 
in his head and the thirst. 

As he regained his mental faculties he realized 


MYSTERY 


US 

that he was staring at the fading light of day 
through an open doorway. His gaze roved nearer 
where he lay, and he saw a pail of water on a bench. 

He tried to raise himself and fell back with a 
groan, as the fiery lances of pain shot through his 
head. He raised an arm, heavy as lead, and felt 
his head. There was a great lump at the back, and 
his hair was sticky. His hand came away damp 
and slightly red from a blood clot. 

He ground his teeth, shut his eyes, and fighting 
the pain the effort cost him, rose to a sitting 
posture. He knew, quite as an incidental matter 
of course, that he was on some kind of a bed. 
He got his feet over the edge, rested them upon 
the floor, reached for the pail on the bench near 
at hand. 

It required both hands to bring it to his lips, 
but he managed to do so, and drank long and deep. 
The water was cool; it revived him somewhat. He 
removed his scarf, soaked it in the water, after 
he had drunk copiously again, and tied it about his 
aching head. He laved his temples with the water, 
bathed his face, held his hot hands in it—and it 
helped. 

For the first time he took note of his surround¬ 
ings. They seemed familiar. Then he remembered 
the bench, the table, the stove, the bunk. He was 
in the cabin of the hermit. He did not try to 
reason why he was there, nor how he had come 
to be roped, dragged from his horse, and dealt a 
stunning blow upon the head. He was too sick 
to reason—to think. 


n6 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


He moved back upon the bunk and lowered his 
head to the pallet of straw. And instantly he was 
in the throes of delirium. Riding, ever riding, with 
the thick dust swirling about him and the hot sun 
beating down upon his head. He could hear the 
bellowing of steers—a continual throbbing of sound 
which never ceased. 

In a lucid moment he felt something cool against 
his feverish lips. Water! He drank long and 
eagerly. Water! Could he ever get enough water! 

And then he was in a dance hall, and the girl, 
Marie, was singing to him; and there were many 
others, and the crack of guns—always that throb, 
throb, throb of never-ending sound. 

During another lucid interval he again felt the 
cool touch to his lips and drank eagerly of the 
water. He saw vaguely through eyes that blurred 
and played queer tricks with his vision, and a lamp 
was burning on the table. He heard the wind whis¬ 
pering in the trees; and then he became unconscious. 
But the delirium had passed. He slept, and when 
he awoke his eyes were clear, the pain in his head 
was less severe, and he was not so thirsty. 

The door to the cabin was open, and the bright 
morning sunlight was flooding in. He could see 
the green of the meadow and the trees on the slope 
of the ridge on its farther side. He was alone. 
A pail of water and a cup were on the table which 
had been pulled close to the head of the bunk. He 
took a drink of the clear, cold water, and it refreshed 
him. He found he could sit up without discomfort. 

On the bench near the foot of the bunk were 


MYSTERY 


ii 7 

his hat, chaps, boots, spurs, cartridge belt, and 
holster. He frowned as he saw the holster was 
empty. His gun was gone. 

He was startled by the sudden appearance of 
the hermit in the open doorway. The old man stood 
looking at him, fingering his white beard, mumbling 
in an undertone. Then he spoke aloud: 

“How do you feel?” 

“Pretty rocky,” Dane confessed. “How’d I get 
here?” 

The hermit advanced to the stove in which a 
fire was burning. “I brung you here,” he said, 
inspecting a small pot on the top of the stove. 
He turned to regard Dane gravely. “You've been 
sick,” he observed, quite as a matter of fact. “I 
thought maybe you’d die.” 

Dane scowled darkly. “Whatever put this lump 
on the back of my head was sure enough to put 
me out for keeps,” he said. “How’d you happen 
to bring me here?” 

“It’s the only place I had to take you,” replied 
the hermit gravely. “Where else would I take you?” 

“But where’d you get hold of me—an’ how?” 
snapped Dane, glaring at the hermit suspiciously. 

“Found you under the trees west o’ here, bleeding 
to death,” the hermit replied soberly. “You must 
eat some of this.” He took a bowl and dipped 
some of the contents of the pot into it; then he 
handed it with a spoon to Dane. 

“Did you see my horse?” Dane asked. 

“Yes; your horse followed me when! I carried 
you here.” 


n8 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“Carried me!” Dane looked at the hermit; and 
then he saw that the old man was indeed sturdily 
built and undeniably was the possessor of great 
strength. 

He tasted the contents of the bowl and found 
it to be a thick, rich gruel. To his surprise he 
ate hungrily. He could almost feel the strength 
returning to him. He looked over the steaming 
bowl at his belongings on the bench. 

“Where’s my gun?” he demanded crossly. 

The hermit shook his head. “1 didn’t see it,” 
he said loudly. 

“Maybe it fell out of the holster when I hit 
the ground,” said Dane, looking at the old man 
questioningly. 

“I didn’t see it,” repeated the hermit with irrita¬ 
tion, turning his back and pouring out a cup of 
strong, black coffee. 

Dane looked angrily about the cabin, undecided 
what to say next. He saw the hermit’s rifle leaning 
against the wall near the stove, saw a long, rawhide 
lariat hung on a peg near the door, saw a saddle 
and bridle on a peg below it. This surprised him. 
He was quite certain that the rope, saddle, and 
bridle hadn’t been there on the occasion of his pre¬ 
vious visit. He started to ask a question, but 
desisted. He felt that after all he was under 
obligations to the old man. Whatever the hermit’s 
reason for succoring him, he had probably saved 
his life. Yet something convinced him that the 
hermit was not telling all he knew by any means. 
He suspected he could learn something of value if 


MYSTERY 


119 

he could only some time get the hermit to talk. Now 
he took the cup of hot coffee which the old man held 
out to him. 

“I’m sure much obliged to you for all this,” he 
thanked him. “I guess you saved my life yester¬ 
day.” 

The hermit stared at him thoughtfully, mumbled 
something to himself, and turned away. 

“Crazy as a bat!” Dane thought to himself. 
“Reckon he don’t know half what he’s doin’.” 

He looked again at the saddle and received an¬ 
other shock. 

“Sufferin’ coyotes!” he murmured aloud. “Am 
I cracked, too ?” 

The saddle was his own, and he saw his own 
lariat hanging from it. This seemed to explain why 
the hermit had carried him. There was no saddle 
or horse belonging to the hermit which Dane had 
seen. The hermit must have been afoot and had 
preferred to carry him rather than attempt to trans¬ 
port him on the horse. Dane knew by experience 
that the bay would object to carrying a dead-weight, 
and that he would not lead. 

The hermit sat down to his own breakfast. 

“Did you see anybody else out there where you 
found me?” Dane asked, putting the empty bowl 
on the table. 

“No,” answered the hermit shortly. 

Dane wanted to ask if he had seen the meeting 
between Hughes and the other rider whom he 
suspected was Williams of the Flying W. He knew 
it wasn’t Bunker. Yet, for reasons which were not 


120 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


quite clear to himself, he didn’t wish the hermit to 
know he was interested in this meeting. What had 
the hermit been doing there? 

“Did you hear any shots before you found me?” 
asked Dane, watching the hermit narrowly. 

“No,” was the reply. 

From past experience Dane knew the old man 
was done talking. He swung down from the bunk 
and stood for a few moments unsteadily. He was 
strangely weak in the knees, and he didn’t feel at 
all like himself. He pulled on his boots, buckled 
on his chaps, and, sitting on the bench, he affixed 
his spurs. He turned his hat thoughtfully in his 
hands before he put it on. He frowned, as he picked 
up the cartridge belt with the empty holster. Again 
he looked at the hermit with suspicion. Yet the old 
man’s story had “listened” true enough. And there 
had been no attempt to hold him prisoner. It must 
be that whoever had dealt him that blow upon the 
head, had either left him for dead, or had some 
mysterious reason for wanting to leave him alive, 
but nearly dead, or had wished to conceal his 
identity. 

But Dane couldn’t see the sense, under the circum¬ 
stances, in taking his gun. 

“Your horse is out back,” said the hermit without 
looking at him. “Your saddle an’ bridle’s by the 
door.” Then he went on eating, apparently oblivious 
to the other’s presence. 

Dane took his saddle and bridle and rope, which 
he saw was his, and staggered out of the cabin, 
calling back his thanks. 


MYSTERY 


121 


He found his horse in a makeshift corral behind 
the cabin, saddled and bridled him, and mounted 
with what seemed the very last iota of his strength. 
He sat in the saddle, breathing heavily, for a short 
space and then rode out into the clearing. The 
hermit was standing in the cabin doorway. He made 
no sign that he saw Dane leaving, and the latter 
walked his horse toward the fringe of trees at the 
eastern edge, where he knew he would strike the 
trail leading to the Diamond H bottoms. 

Just as he gained the trees he heard the pound 
of hoofs across the clearing, the sharp crack of a 
gun, and a bullet whined past him. He put the spurs 
to the bay and, as he plunged into the trees, flashed 
a look over his shoulder. 

Two men were riding furiously across the clear¬ 
ing. Hot lead clipped the leaves about him, as shots 
sounded. The bay dodged through the trees and 
dashed across the open meadow beyond, urged by 
the relentless bite of Dane’s steel. They darted into 
the trail and around a ridge, as more shots came 
from the two who were riding hotly in pursuit. 

On either side of the trail the timber was thick, 
and Dane, pushing the bay for all he was worth, 
increased his lead. Where the trail swung eastward 
at the upper end of the ridge Dane left it, swerved 
to the left into the timber, and rode over the end 
of the ridge, sheltered by the trees, into a deep 
ravine. He was now directly north of the cabin, 
and he looked hastily about. Soon he saw what he 
was looking for—a small blaze on a tree. He swung 
northward and soon saw another blaze. He rode 


122 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


northeastward, following the blazes which he had 
made on the occasion of his first finding of the 
cabin on the morning after he had followed Marie 
to the bad lands and had ventured in to become lost. 

In this way he lost his pursuers. He thought 
steadily, as he rode along the difficult trail, marked 
only by the slashes on the tree trunks, cut by his 
knife. The lids were narrowed over his eyes, which 
were gleaming with a steel-blue light. In that 
fleeting glance over his shoulder, as he left the 
clearing, he had seen that Matt Bunker was one of 
his pursuers! 

Had Bunker known that he was at the hermit’s 
cabin? And, if so, how did it come that he was 
aware of the fact? 

These thoughts caused Dane’s face to darken, as 
he rode cautiously out of the bad lands to the 
Diamond H bottoms and galloped eastward past the 
hundred head of cattle grazing there. 

As he approached the ranch he began to think 
about the shots he had heard after he had been 
roped and dragged from his horse. Had Hughes 
and the other man had trouble? Had the thing 
which he would have prevented come to pass ? 

There was little of the youthful, dreamy look in 
his eyes as he pushed on across the bottoms. He 
pulled his hat down against the brilliant rays of the 
early-morning sun. He felt very sick. His head 
was aching again. Then he saw a rider approaching. 
He smothered an exclamation, as he recognized 
Esther Hughes in the saddle. 


CHAPTER XIII 


“don ; t say it!” 

r I ’HE very freshness of the morning was in 
* Esther Hughes’ face. The olive-tinted skin of 
her cheeks glowed like a blooming rose, with the 
exhilarating whip of the wind. She sat her horse, 
a splendid chestnut, with the graceful abandon of 
one born to the saddle. Wisps of dark hair caressed 
her ears from under the cap set rakishly on her head. 
She rode astride in riding breeches and boots, and 
a dark-blue blouse and flowing, red four-in-hand 
enhanced her natural beauty. 

Dane gazed at her in frank admiration, as she 
pulled up her horse beside him. 

His smile vanished, however, as he saw the coolly 
speculative look in her eyes. 

“So!” she said with a lifting of her brows. 
“You’re back.” 

“I expect it looks that way,” said Dane. He did 
not feel in a mood for much talk. He was weak, 
and his head was throbbing. He felt hot and was 
again craving water. 

“Father and some of the men were about to go 
and search for you,” she volunteered, looking at him 
steadily. 

The quality of her gaze irritated him—made him 
feel uncomfortable. Why did she look at him like 


124 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


that? It was as if he had done something wrong. 
He sensed that for some reason he was being dis¬ 
ciplined. He resented it. 

“That’s peculiar,” he said. “Eve been gone before 
without any search parties being sent out, or is this 
a posse ?” 

“This is hardly the time for sarcasm,” she said 
coldly. “I can only say that I am surprised and 
mystified, Mr. Lightning Dane.” 

He frowned. “An’ I can only say that I don’t 
know what you’re driving at, ma’am,” he retorted, 
his irritation putting a belligerent note into his voice. 

“After the events of yesterday I should think you 
would understand my—my disappointment,” she 
said a bit haughtily. “I took you at your word, 
Mr. Dane, when you said if father needed any help 
that you were working for him. I took it to imply 
that you would follow him and try to prevent 
trouble.” 

“I followed him,” snapped Dane. His head was 
splitting. He could hardly see. It was almost im¬ 
possible to think. 

She took his evident discomfiture for a mental 
rather than a physical state—misplaced its cause. 

“Rather interesting that he didn’t see you,” she 
observed pointedly. 

“I didn’t aim that he should see me unless it was 
necessary,” he returned. 

“I suppose you were hiding in the trees, and that 
very likely explains it all.” 

“Meanin’ what, ma’am?” 


“DON’T SAY IT!” 125 

“I don’t suppose you remember anything,” she 
taunted. 

“I don’t remember very much, an’ that’s a fact,” 
he said, putting a hand to his head. The world 
seemed revolving about him. He saw the green 
of the bottoms and the bright sunlight, as through 
a veil of mist which wavered before his aching 
eyes. 

“It is surprising, Mr. Dane, how much has hap¬ 
pened since you arrived,” she said mockingly. 

“An’ you may have some more surprises cornin’ 
before I leave,” he said in a voice which seemed 
to him to come from far away. 

“No doubt. And father likely will get blamed 
for it all.” 

“I reckon I ain’t tryin’ to hang the blame for 
anything / do on anybody else’s shoulders, if that’s 
what you mean, ma’am,” he said tartly, resenting 
her insinuation. 

“Then I suppose you will, perhaps, be willing 
to assume the responsibility for what happened 
yesterday, Mr. Dane ?” 

Her words brought him to himself. “What was 
it that happened yesterday?” he demanded, scowling. 

“Oh, it’s ridiculous,” she said impatiently, “but 
I’ll go on. Father met that man Williams, and 
there was trouble.” 

“I saw ’em sort of squarin’ off,” he said, momen¬ 
tarily shaking off the pain and fever which gripped 
him and exercising all his will power. “Who did 
the shootin’? I heard shots.” 


126 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“Oh, you saw them. Then you must have been 
in the trees. And you heard shots! How extraor¬ 
dinary. Bravado! But I thought gunmen fought 
in the open, Mr. Dane.” 

“What’re you talking about?” he cried. 

“I’ll explain it all to you,” she said with a mocking 
smile. “Williams drew his weapon and shot father 
in the arm. Father shot to protect himself, and 
his bullet went wild. Then Williams fell from his 
horse, shot in the back.” 

“I heard three shots,” said Dane wonderingly, half 
to himself. 

“Williams’ back was toward the trees,” Esther 
pointed out, meaningly. 

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Somebody shot 
him from the trees?” he said vaguely. 

“Where you were, Mr. Dane. Is that the way 
you intended to protect my father ? He will be 
accused of shooting a man in the back because 
you”-—she looked at him with scornful accusation 
shining in her eyes—“you hid-” 

“Don’t say it!” thundered Dane, the world wheel¬ 
ing about him. “Don’t say it—unless you want 
me to have to remember I once told a woman— 
she lied!” 

A pain, sharp, excruciating, shot through his head. 
The girl, sitting before him, was a dim figure with 
a hazy background. The fever mounted in his veins. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, placing a hand to her throat. 
The color left her face, as she saw the strange look 
in his eyes. They appeared bloodshot with anger. 



'DON’T SAY IT! 3 


“I don’t presume I should expect a gunman to 
be chivalrous,” she said icily. 

‘Tm chivalrous enough to warn you not to take 
advantage of the fact that you’re a girl,” he man¬ 
aged to say. “I might kill a man, if he said what 
you was goiiV to say.” His voice wavered, and he 
looked about unsteadily. 

She mistook his apparent distress for rage and 
nervousness. It seemed proof conclusive of his 
guilt. Her lips curled in contempt. Without an¬ 
other word she whirled her horse and galloped 
toward the ranch buildings. 

Dane urged his horse ahead. He leaned far 
forward, holding to the horn of his saddle with 
both hands. The landscape was whirling again; 
his vision was dim; the pains were shooting through 
his head, and his lips and tongue were dry; his 
throat was burning with thirst. 

He thought no more of what the girl had said; 
forgot his resentment at her unjust accusation. 
He could think only of the pain in his head. He 
was fearfully hot. He tore his shirt open in front. 
He needed air and water. 

He roused himself with difficulty; saw the dim 
outlines of the big hay shed ahead. Passed it, cling¬ 
ing to the saddle horn and swaying in his seat. 
His horse broke into a trot, as he neared the barn, 
and Dane pulled him up, fearful lest he should fall 
from the saddle. He went on past the barn to 
the bunk house. He saw, as through a fog, that 
there were horsemen near the barn. He thought 
he heard his name whispered on the breeze. 


128 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Old Marty came running out to meet him. 

He halted before the bunk house, slowly rose 
in the saddle and lifted his right foot from the 
stirrup to dismount. Then his strength left him, 
and he fell backward into old Marty’s arms. 


CHAPTER XIV 


“in the shadow” 



'HERE is something tragic about a serious illness 


on a ranch in the open country. It may be 
because the ranch is a little community by itself, 
set off from other habitations, many miles distant, 
perhaps, from a town, and the welfare of all, there¬ 
fore, of concern to each individual. Or, it may 
be because medical aid is obtained with difficulty 
at the cost of considerable time and effort, and is 
more or less transitory. And, as sickness is not 
common among people who lead an outdoor life, 
an unusual importance attaches to it when it comes. 

Thus, when Dane toppled from his horse into 
Marty’s arms, there was curiosity and then con¬ 
sternation at the Diamond H. 

“Carry him into the house,” Gordon Hughes 
instructed Shay and Fred, when it was found that 
Dane was unconscious. 

They carried him to the sitting room where there 
was a quick examination by the rancher and his 
wife. 

They found a deep cut, clotted with blood, in the 
back of his head. 

“Looks like it’d been done with the butt of a 
six-shooter,” said Hughes softly. Then, looking 
about: “Fred, go to town an’ get Doc Ross.” 


130 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Fred left hurriedly, and almost immediately came 
the barking of the little car, as the youth sped 
on his errand. 

Dane was taken into a spare bedroom at the 
front of the house and put to bed. Mrs. Hughes 
washed his wound and bandaged it, her sister and 
Esther helping her. 

Esther was bewildered. She bit her lips, as she 
remembered the conversation of less than an hour 
before. Why hadn’t he said he was injured? Why 
hadn’t he told her what had happened ? Had he 
been injured in attempting to go to the aid of her 

father? Or, had he been injured after—after- 

She shuddered, as she remembered his look when 
she had hinted of what she had believed. He must 
have been in great pain when she was talking to him; 
his eyes had been bloodshot with the fever which 
was raging within him. Her lips trembled, and 
she left the sick room hurriedly. 

Fred returned with the doctor in remarkably short 
time. Doc Ross, as he was known the length and 
breadth of the range country, was short and rotund, 
with a round, red face and mild blue eyes. He 
wiped his glasses and looked at Fred with dis¬ 
approval, as he inwardly thanked his stars that he 
was alive after that fast ride. 

“That boy’ll string himself an’ his passengers 
an’ his car all over the prairie between here an’ 
Black Butte one of these days,” he said to Gordon 
Hughes, as he entered the house carrying his 
medicine case. 


“IN THE SHADOW” 131 

In the sick room his professional instincts were 
immediately uppermost. 

“High fever—gettin’ delirious—bad cut there— 
big shock—young, though—an’ what a build!” he 
said, partly to himself. “I guess he’s got a con¬ 
stitution that’ll pull him through. Now you people 
get out of here, except you, Mrs. Hughes. Please 
get me some warm water.” 

He set to work, and the others went about the 
house on tiptoe, while Mrs. Hughes hurried softly 
in and out of the sick room. 

Gordon Hughes went out and walked back and 
forth between the bunk house and the barn. Shay 
and the others were sent back to their work with 
the cattle. Servais was given orders to ride down 
occasionally to look after the small herd in the 
bottoms west of the barns, and to keep them this 
side of the line. 

Old Marty approached Hughes anxiously. “What’s 
the matter with him? How is he?” he asked anx¬ 
iously, rubbing his stumps of hands. 

Hughes explained gruffly. 

“Queer doings,” observed Marty. “Something’s 
terrible wrong on that Flyin’ W range, Gordon. 
Dane was over there somewhere, all right. I bet 
that man Bunker has got something to do with it. 
He’s got a bad eye, Gordon. I can tell. I know 
when they’re bad clear through, an’ one peep at 
Bunker high-handin’ it in Black Butte showed me 
what he was. An’ he’s a gunman, all right. 

“An’ listen to me, Gordon,” continued the old man 
earnestly. “Dane’s no slouch with his shootin’ iron. 


132 


RIDER O' THE STARS 


either. That boy’s lightnin’ fast. I’d bank on it. 
I know. I can tell by the way he stands and holds 
his hands an’ walks. He’s like a cat. An’ he ain’t 
askeered of Bunker none, either. An’ Bunker 
knows it, after that rumpus in The Palace at Black 
Butte. If Dane gets it in for Bunker, that feller 
better watch out, for I’d bet both my eyes the lad 
’u’d get him.” 

“Well, we can’t find out what happened until Dane 
gets so he can talk,” observed Hughes moodily. 

“I like that feller,” Marty reflected. “He’s quiet. 
He don’t say much. They’re dangerous, them kind, 
too, when they get started. Sometimes they’re hard 
to start, an’ then they’re twice as dangerous. I 
dunno; but I’ve got Dane figured for one of them 
kind that’s hard to start.” 

Hughes saw Doc Ross on the porch and hastened 
to join him. 

“Very high fever,” said the doctor shortly. “I 
dressed his head. Bad cut. Done with the butt 
of a pistol, maybe. How’d it happen?” 

The rancher explained the circumstances which 
made it impossible for him to answer the doctor’s 
question. Then he asked about Williams. 

“Took him to the county seat,” snorted Doc 
Ross. “Thought I wasn’t good enough, I guess. 
Maybe I ain’t, but I’ve put a lot of men in my 
day back in their saddles that was shot up worse 
than he was. Maybe they thought I’d be askin’ 
too many questions. He was shot from behind. 
Something wrong. No, Gordon, don’t look at me; 
I know you didn’t do it.” 


IN THE SHADOW 5 


133 


“Why, are they talkin’ ’bout me?” asked Hughes. 

“Just mentioned you was there,” soothed the 
doctor. “What’s your arm done up in a rag for?” 

Hughes told him, and he insisted upon looking 
at the wound which he said didn’t “amount to 
shucks.” Then he prepared to go. 

“He’ll be delirious to-night,” he told Gordon 
Hughes and his wife. “That medicine’ll quiet him 
some. I can’t give him too much. He’s had a bad 
shock; hit in a bad place, too. I’ll come out again 
in the morning.” 

Fred drove up in the little car. 

“Not. so fast now, you young scoundrel,” cau¬ 
tioned the doctor, holding up a warning finger. 
“I’m an old man, an’ I’ve got a few other patients 
that need my moral support, if not my medicine. 
So long, Gordon. Keep the windows open, Mrs. 
Hughes, an’ give him all the water he wants to 
drink. I’m a great believer in water an’ fresh air— 
nothing to eat while he’s got fever.” 

Gordon Hughes looked at his wife, as Fred drove 
away with the doctor. She was calm, appearing 
coolly efficient and composed in her white dress and 
apron. 

“He’s resting easily,” she said. “You mustn’t go 
in. Sister and Esther and I will look after him. 
Stop looking so worried and angry, Gordon. What’s 
happened has happened. After all we’re still ranch¬ 
ing, and the West is the West; we can’t change it.” 

“I’m glad you realize it, little woman,” said 
Hughes, putting his arm about her shoulders. “An’ 
it seems to me that out of all this trouble there 


134 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


ought to come some good. I reckon the Big Range 
Boss over this world will look at it that way.” 

“You’re a good man, Gordon,” said his wife, 
patting his hand. “Perhaps Dane got hurt trying 
to help you. I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“Nor I,” said Hughes quickly, his face clouding. 

By sundown Dane was again in the throes of a 
raging delirium. Mrs. Hughes and her sister took 
turns sitting up with him. In the early morning 
Esther came down and took up the vigil in the sick 
room. 

Through the early-morning hours Dane raved 
and muttered and tossed and turned restlessly in 
the bed. When he opened his eyes occasionally he 
apparently failed to recognize Esther, who watched 
him eagerly for signs of normality. He would lapse 
again immediately into delirium. 

She listened intently to his ravings for some word 
which would give a dew to his past; but none came. 
His mind seemed to be occupied with recent hap¬ 
penings, and she could make nothing of the dis¬ 
jointed sentences and muttered exclamations, except 
one. 

“You lie!” he cried, half rising in bed. “I tell 
you, you lie!” 

Her hands flew to her breast. Did he mean her! 
Was his fevered brain dwelling on what she had 
said to him the morning before, or, rather, on what 
she hadn’t said, but had really thought? A little 
cry of anguish escaped her, as she gently pushed 
him down upon the bed, smoothing the pillow under 
his head. She stroked the shock of hair—the color 


“IN THE SHADOW” 


135 


of bronze—which peeped through the bandages, 
and there were tears in her eyes. 

Oh, why hadn’t she been able to see that he had 
been injured, that he was ill? Why hadn’t he told 
her? Then came the agonizing thought that she 
was responsible for his injury! She had sent him 
to follow her father. He had done so and had 
come back like this! 

“You lie!” he repeated in his raging delirium. 
“You know where that gun is! I reckon you’ve got 
it—you white-haired ghost!” 

Then it was something about a gun, she thought. 
A ghost ? Whatever it was it evidently had no 
reference to her. She pulled the light covers about 
him, touched his burning temples with cold water 
and watched over him with a pain of misgiving 
in her heart. 

Toward morning he quieted down somewhat. 
Thus Esther watched the coming of the dawn 
through the windows. 

Fred left for town soon after daybreak and 
returned after breakfast with the doctor. The 
physician spent some time in the sick room. When 
he emerged he found Gordon Hughes, Esther, Fred, 
and old Marty waiting anxiously in the sitting room. 

“Still got the fever,” grunted Doc Ross. “Very 
bad shock—dangerous place—might come out of it 
a little off.” He tapped his head significantly. 

“Doctor!” exclaimed Esther. “You—you mean 

-” She faltered, as the others looked at her, 

surprised at her emotion. 

Then she quickly left the room, ran across the 



RIDER O’ THE STARS 


136 

porch and down the steps, and walked rapidly to 
the shelter of the friendly cottonwoods. There she 
paused under the trees, her hands to her breast, and 
stared unseeingly. She knew—had known without 
asking—what the doctor had meant. The blow upon 
his head might cause Dane to lose his mind! She 
dropped limply upon the grass, buried her face upon 
her arms, and gave way to tears. 

All that day the doctor remained at the ranch 
house. In the evening Fred drove him back to 
Black Butte to visit a patient there and returned 
with him in the twilight. And that night, while 
Dane’s constitution battled with the raging fever, 
and he lingered in the black shadow, the prairie 
man of medicine fought for his life with all the 
science he possessed. 

Gordon Hughes remained up. 

“You had better look through his things an’ see 
if you can find out anything about him,” said the 
doctor to Hughes. 

The rancher knew what was in the doctor’s mind. 
He had told him all he knew about Dane. And 
both men realized that Dane might die. So Hughes 
examined his clothes, his slicker pack, and his 
other belongings in the hope that he might learn 
the man’s identity. He discovered nothing to in¬ 
dicate who he was, or whence he had come. 
He noted, however, that his gun was gone. 

With the dawn Dane fell into a peaceful sleep. 

“Guess the crisis is over,” said Doc Ross wearily. 
“I’ll get a wink of sleep. When he wakes up we’ll 
know.” 


“IN THE SHADOW’ 


137 


It was Esther who was in the room that after¬ 
noon when Dane opened his eyes. She looked at 
him, her heart seeming to cease beating, as he stared 
at her fixedly. His lips moved, and she bent over 
him to catch what he said. 

“Water,” he murmured faintly, and a sob of 
joy came to her throat, as she saw the look of 
reason in his eyes. 

The doctor forbade him to talk; forbade the others 
to talk to him. Rest and quiet, and after a time 
a little orange juice and later a wee bit of broth. 
His instructions were explicit. 

For three days Dane slept and rested and swal¬ 
lowed nourishment. Slowly his strength began to 
return. He was on the mend. The fourth morn¬ 
ing an automobile came along the road from town. 
Gordon Hughes came out on the porch to greet 
the visitors. He scowled, as he recognized the 
sheriff of the county. 

“Sorry I ain’t here on a personal visit,” said 
the sheriff. “Ain’t got no say in the business, you 
understand.” There was a note of apology in his 
voice. 

Mrs. Hughes and Esther were standing pale- 
faced in the doorway. 

“You don’t have to explain, sheriff,” said Gordon 
Hughes. “I was sort of expectin’ you.” 

The official looked relieved. “I’m glad you look 
at it that way, Hughes. My job ain’t always a right 
pleasant one.” 

“I know,” nodded the rancher. “You want me 
to go back with you this morning?” 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


138 

“You?” said the sheriff, surprised. “I ain’t lookin’ 
for you, Hughes. I’ve got a warrant for a man 
named Dane.” 

The little group on the porch stared incredulously. 

“Dane!” Hughes exploded. “What do you want 
him for?” 

“Charge is shootin’ a man in the back with intent 
to kill,” said the sheriff, nettled at the rancher’s 
tone. 

“The dirty blackguards!” stormed Hughes. “Wil¬ 
liams, I suppose.” And then, as the sheriff nodded, 
he quickly explained Dane’s condition. 

“Can’t take him then,” said the sheriff, frowning. 
“But I’ve got to serve this warrant.” He stepped 
upon the porch. 

“You can’t go in there, sheriff,” said Hughes 
sharply. 

The sheriff looked at him severely. “I reckon 
you forget I’m sheriff of this county, Hughes,” he 
said, turning back his coat to reveal the star pinned 
to a suspended strap. 

“Sheriff or no sheriff, you can’t go in that room 
until he’s well” thundered Hughes, stepping before 
the official. “An’ if you draw that gun you’re goin’ 
to have to shoot!” 

The sheriff hesitated, his brows puckering. “I’ve 
got my duty to do, Hughes, I figure you want to 
be fair.” 

“I do that,” replied Hughes. “You can give me 
your warrant, an’ I’ll be responsible for Dane.” 

“All right,” said the sheriff finally. “I reckon 
your word’s good.” 


CHAPTER XV 


AN ULTIMATUM 

F^ANE’S rapid strides toward complete recovery 
surprised even Doc Ross. He explained some¬ 
what vaguely that the shock had caused “nervous 
complications” which had—here he had recourse to 
a number of baffling medical terms which meant 
nothing to the Hughes family, but convinced them 
that Dane had been very near death, as was indeed 
the case. 

A week after Dane began to mend, word came 
from town that Williams had been brought back 
from the hospital at the county seat and was at 
the Flying W ranch, recovering from his wound. 

As soon as Dane was permitted to talk to any 
extent, Gordon Hughes closeted himself in the room 
with him and heard the story of what had happened 
the day Williams had been shot. Neither he nor 
Dane could solve the mystery to their satisfaction, 
nor did they arrive at any conclusion which carried 
the force of sound logic. They decided it was best 
to keep what little they did know to themselves. 

Dane was incensed at the thought of the loss of 
his gun. 

“Whoever’s got that gun knows who shot Wil¬ 
liams,” he told Hughes. 


140 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


The rancher nodded, and then he told Dane of 
the warrant and the visit of the sheriff. 

“That’s Bunker’s work,” Dane declared. “He 
knew I was at the hermit’s cabin that mornin’. 
Only thing I can’t understand is why he didn’t 
come in the night.” 

“He went into town with Williams,” explained 
Hughes. “I reckon Bunker knows who shot Wil¬ 
liams.” 

The two men looked at each other knowingly. 

Nothing further was said about the matter that 
day, and Hughes announced at the supper table 
that he would go to Black Butte and the county 
seat on the morrow. 

“I told Williams I was goin’ to fence the strip,” 
he said; “but I reckon I can’t do that while he’s 
on his back.” He frowned heavily, remembering 
the warning of the banker from Black Butte that 
the boundary would have to be decided before he 
would renew the note due July 15th. 

“I’ve got to see Stevens,” he continued. “I 
reckon the American Bank owes me as much good 
will as I owe them.” 

However Gordon Hughes was not thinking so 
much about prospective financial difficulties as he 
was about the strange way Dane had received his 
injury. There had been a reason for swearing out 
the warrant. Hughes believed Bunker knew Dane 
had nothing to do with the shooting of Williams. 
Did Bunker wish to put Dane out of the way to 
further some design of his own or of Williams? 
He might have thought Dane would have to remain 


AN ULTIMATUM 


141 

in jail for a time. He knew Bunker had been 
enraged after the incident in The Palace in town, 
but he felt it would be more like the Flying W 
foreman to endeavor to take revenge with his gun. 

Shay was instructed that afternoon to start north 
with the beef herd and the other cattle in the eastern 
section of the bottoms. Servais was looking after 
the small bunch in the bottoms to westward. He 
reported that no Flying W cattle could be seen near 
the contested strip between the two ranches. Wil¬ 
liams or Bunker evidently had ordered that all Flying 
W men keep away from the line. 

Old Marty shook his head and told Mrs. Hughes 
“there was sure something in the wind/’ 

Gordon Hughes went in to see Dane before he 
started for town next morning. 

“You’re goin’ to Conard?” Dane asked with 
interest. 

“Yes, I’m goin’ to the county seat,” said Hughes. 

“There’s reasons why I wouldn’t want to go up 
there,” said Dane softly, looking out of the window 
to the green of the cottonwoods. “That is—not 
just yet,” he added with a peculiar smile. 

Hughes looked at him quickly. “You don’t want 
to see the sheriff then?” 

“No, I don’t,” replied Dane with a direct glance. 
“An’ I wouldn’t want to put in any amount of time 
as his guest, either.” 

“That won’t be necessary—so far as this Williams 
business is concerned—anyway,” said the rancher, 
watching him narrowly. 

But there was nothing in Dane’s look or manner 


142 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


to indicate that he didn’t wish to see the sheriff 
for other reasons. He merely smiled cheerfully. 

“Look here, Dane,” said Hughes suddenly, “I 
want you to know that I’ll stand behind you any 
time you might need me. If there’s anything-” 

He paused. Dane was shaking his head. 

“You won’t have to be no guest of the sheriff 
because of that warrant,” continued Hughes, driving 
his fist into his palm. “I’ll tend to that. I’ll have 
a bond up for you before night.” 

“Aren’t you takin’ a chance?” 

“No!” Hughes exploded. “An’ if I am, it ain’t 
the first chance I’ve taken. An’ I’ll bring you back 
a new gun.” 

Dane’s smile broadened at this. He described 
his missing .45. 

“I’ll get its twin brother in Conard,” Hughes 
promised. 

Dane looked at him curiously, and neither spoke 
for a time. Hughes stared out of the window 
thoughtfully. 

“Old Marty’s got you pegged for a gunman,” 
the rancher remarked in a casual voice without 
looking at Dane. 

“Old Marty’s got some queer ideas,” said Dane, 
frowning. “But he’s a good sort.” 

“There’s been times when I wished I had a man 
that was handy that a way with his gun on the 
ranch,” said Hughes. “But I ain’t never hired a 
gun fighter because he was one. I don’t believe in 
gun play—unless the other feller starts it, an’ you 
can’t get away from it.” 



AN ULTIMATUM 


143 


He looked at Dane squarely. 

“I reckon that’s the right idea,” said Dane. 

Hughes rose to go, as Esther came in with Dane’s 
breakfast. She flushed, as she looked at her father, 
and he paused a moment, regarding her queerly. 
Then he went out. 

He started with Fred for town in the car shortly 
afterward. They took a road leading northward 
before reaching Black Butte and drove northwest¬ 
ward to the main road to the county seat, cutting 
off several miles. In the late afternoon they re¬ 
turned to Black Butte. 

Gordon Hughes proceeded straight to the American 
Bank where, after knocking loudly on the locked 
front door, Sam Stevens appeared, let him in, and 
led him to his little private office in the rear of the 
building. 

“I signed a five-thousand-dollar bond with the 
judge for the appearance of my man, Dane, when 
the court wants him,” Hughes told the banker. “I 
thought maybe you ought to know.” 

“Bad business,” said Stevens. “How do you 
know your man won’t beat it out of the country?” 

“I don’t know,” scowled Hughes, “but I don’t 
figure I’m takin’ much of a chance.” 

“Maybe you ain’t, an’ maybe you are,” returned 
the banker. “It wouldn’t be exactly fortunate to 
have to make that five thousand good this fall.” 

“I ain’t worryin’,” said Hughes, as the banker 
sat down and motioned him to a chair. 

“There’s something else on my mind,” he con¬ 
tinued, taking a seat. “You know about Williams, 


144 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


of course. I was down there to see him the day 
you came down to my place. He wants the whole 
strip we’ve been on the outs about. Wants the big 
spring. I’d let him have it, if he hadn’t hinted 
aroun’ that I might lose the ranch.” 

The banker’s eyes were gleaming points of light 
in his pasty face. He switched his gaze to the 
window. 

“Couldn’t come to any agreement with him,” 
Hughes went on, avoiding the topic of the shooting. 
“Told him I’d fence down the middle of the strip, 
if he wouldn’t make terms. And I’ll do it!” 

The banker looked at him quickly. “That would 
make trouble, wouldn’t it?” he asked in a smooth, 
monotonous voice. 

“Probably would,” said Hughes shortly. “But I 
hate to do it while he’s laid up. ’Twould sort of 
look as if I was try in’ to take advantage of him. 
We’ve got to get around that boundary till he gets 
on his feet again.” 

“I want the boundary determined,” said Stevens 
tersely. “I’m within my rights in demanding it.” 

“Then let the county send a man down here an’ 
survey it on an order from the court,” exclaimed 
the rancher. 

“But that isn’t the point,” was the suave reply. 
“The boundaries of your ranch are defined, more 
or less, in your patents from the government. But, 
as long as you and Williams are fighting over the 
matter, a prospective buyer, say in an emergency, 
would be frightened away, and-” 

“Why are you always hinting about prospective 



AN ULTIMATUM 


145 


buyers an’ such?” demanded Hughes with a dark¬ 
ening countenance. 

“Because I’m holding your paper to the amount 
of nearly sixty thousand dollars,” retorted the 
banker loudly. 

Hughes became suddenly calm. “If the line ain’t 
fixed up by the fifteenth of next month you’ll refuse 
to renew that six-thousand-dollar note?” he asked 
coolly. 

“It’s the only way I can see of getting you to 
do something,” Stevens evaded. 

“Then I’ll go to the Cattlemen’s Association!” 
cried Hughes, leaping from his chair. 

“What good will that do?” asked the banker, 
rising. 

“It’ll put this business of financing where it be¬ 
longs,” thundered Hughes. “It’ll mean that the 
association men who’re doin’ their banking with 
you will look outside of the county for the accommo¬ 
dation they need. I’ve got influence enough to put 
that over, Stevens; I can do it. An’ I can get the 
six thousand, too—an’ you know it!” 

The banker’s eyes were flashing angrily. He 
compressed his lips. 

“Wait a minute,” he snapped, as Hughes started 
for the door. “In any event the affair of this bank 
will not permit me to extend that note more than 
three months. I can do that, and the most of your 
paper will be due October fifteenth. I’ll extend that 
note till then, Hughes, and then you’ll have to make 
good the notes which are due. That’s final, associa¬ 
tion or no association. It seems to me that your 


i 4 6 RIDER O’ THE STARS* 

threat was a queer one in view of the accommoda¬ 
tions this bank has given the stockmen in this 
county.” 

Hughes shook a forefinger at the banker. “The 
stockmen’s notes are the only notes you’ve got right 
now that are secured,” he said sternly. “With three 
years of drought behind us this land hereabouts ain’t 
worth a dollar an acre for farming. All we ask is a 
chance to ship on a rising market. If we don’t get 
that, there’ll be no American Bank in Black Butte— 
only you ain’t wise enough to see it.” 

Stevens filled out a note blank and handed it to 
him to sign. While Hughes was signing, Stevens 
went out into the banking room and returned shortly 
afterward with the old note which he gave to the 
rancher. His face was cold and set. 

“That ought to settle our business until the fifteenth 
of October,” he said grimly. “But I’m expecting 
that you will get that boundary matter fixed up in 
the meantime.” 

Hughes looked puzzled. What had the boundary 
to do with it now? Why should Stevens be anxious 
about the boundary when he could be reasonably 
sure of getting the money due the bank when it 
fell due? The Diamond H beeves would be shipped 
in time to take care of the notes. The rancher 
shrugged and gave it up. 

“Quit worryin’, Stevens; you’ll get gray-headed,” 
he said with a laugh at his own joke, for the banker 
was bald. 

Stevens showed him out with a bow and a sar¬ 
castic smile. Then he stood at a window of the 


AN ULTIMATUM 


147 


bank and watched Gordon Hughes walk away. The 
banker’s eyes were glittering points of flame, and 
there was no suggestion of mirth in the smile which 
played upon his thin lips. 

Gordon Hughes walked jauntily enough, but he 
was uneasy in his mind. The banker had given 
in readily when he had threatened to take the matter 
to the Cattlemen’s Association. The rancher knew 
Stevens didn’t want any trouble with the association 
at that time. And he hadn’t been bluffing when he 
said he had influence with that body. But there 
had been something in the banker’s manner which 
indicated he had something up his sleeve. Hughes 
pondered on this as he walked down the short 
street. 

Although the car was at the hotel, Fred was not 
there. The rancher turned and looked back the way 
he had come. He stiffened, as he saw two horse¬ 
men ride up to The Palace and dismount. One of 
the men was Matt Bunker. The other he did not 
know. 

He reflected that Fred was very likely in The 
Palace. After a moment’s hesitation he frowned 
and started toward the resort. 

As he entered, he heard Bunker’s voice: 

“An’ I’ll tell that to the first Diamond H man 
I see,” the Flying W foreman was saying loudly. 

Gordon Hughes walked to where Bunker was 
standing at the bar. 

“All right, Bunker, you can tell it to me!” he said 
quietly, as the foreman whirled upon him. 


CHAPTER XVI 


C I SAW HIM !” 


HE two men stood facing each other. They 



* were about equal in size; if there was any differ¬ 
ence in their weight it was in favor of Hughes, who 
was a bit taller than Bunker. Hughes’ eyes, clear, 
coldly inquiring, looked straight into Bunker’s which 
were gleaming fiercely. The Flying W foreman half 
sprawled with one arm—his left—upon the bar 
behind him. The suggestion of a sneer played upon 
his thick lips. 

It was the first time Gordon Hughes ever had 
spoken to Bunker, and Bunker recognized the chal¬ 
lenge. 

“I was talkin’ about your gunman,” he sneered. 

“Who do you mean?” demanded Hughes, al¬ 
though he knew to whom the foreman referred. 

“That rat Dane,” said the other, his face darken¬ 
ing. “He’s your gun toter, ain’t he?” 

“You’re takin’ a lot for granted, Bunker,” said 
Hughes evenly. “What was it you was goin’ to tell 
the first Diamond H man that came into the place?” 

“That I’m goin’ to cure that gunman of yours of 
shootin’ a man in the back from under cover,” 
snarled Bunker. “I’ll make him exercise his trigger 
finger in the open, an’ I’ll show him how a man 
shoots.” 


1 SAW HIM!’ 


149 


Gordon Hughes smiled. “Funny you’d want to 
put Dane in jail where you couldn’t get a chance at 
him,” he said sarcastically. 

Bunker’s eyes blazed wrathfully. He sputtered 
in an effort to speak, then compressed his lips tightly, 
holding back the burning words that were on his 
tongue. 

“Or, maybe, you thought it would make trouble 
for me,” Hughes went on amiably, smiling his tan¬ 
talizing smile which was driving the other mad. 

“I ain’t runnin’ the Flyin’ W alone,” flashed 
Bunker. 

“That’s what I thought,” said Hughes in a tone of 
triumph. “I reckoned you only thought you was.” 

It had been Williams then who had sought to jail 
Dane and thereby made it necessary for him, 
Hughes, to put up a stiff bond. Williams was play¬ 
ing to hamper him, either by the loss of Dane’s 
services, or by compelling him to risk the amount 
of the bond. 

Bunker took a step toward him. 

“You ain’t wise to all that’s goin’ on on this 
range,” he said darkly. 

“No; I reckon you know a lot more’n you want 
to tell,” retorted Hughes. “I figure you know who 
shot Williams, Bunker, an’ both of us know it 
wasn't Dane!” 

Bunker’s popping eyes, always more prominent 
when he was in a rage, flashed red fire. 

“That’s a lie!” he roared. “An’ you don’t know 
one thing about it.” 

Hughes remained cool, shrugged his shoulders, 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


150 

smiled again. “I didn’t say who shot your boss; 
I said Dane didn’t shoot him,” he replied calmly. 
“I ain’t accusing you, Bunker; I wouldn't accuse any 
man till I had the goods on him; but-” 

“You can't accuse me,” shouted Bunker, while the 
few others in the place stepped quickly back away 
from the bar. “If you say I’d shoot a man in the 

back, I’ll-” His hand hovered clawlike over 

the butt of his gun. 

“Don’t forget that I am not armed, Bunker,” said 
Gordon Hughes sharply. “This is still a country 
where men respect fair play. An’ you’re takin’ a 
lot for granted again. You come here with a string 
of killings behind you for a hole card. This has 
been a peaceful range, Bunker, an’ it’s goin’ to be a 
peaceful range again. No one bad man is goin’ 
to run this county!” 

Bunker’s face had purpled. The fingers of his 
gun hand were twitching with the itch to close like 
lightning on the butt of his weapon and shatter 
Gordon Hughes’ logic with a bullet. But the Flying 
W foreman knew that the Diamond H rancher 
had friends; he knew he spoke the truth when he 
referred to fair play; he realized, even in the white 
heat of his anger, that this would be no ordinary 
killing if he went through with it—that he would 
be hunted the length and breadth of the State. 

The fire in his eyes smoldered, as his anger gave 
way to a saner impulse. He didn’t want to be 
chased out of the State—yet. 

“Of course you ain’t accusin’ me,” he said at 
length in a voice trembling with passion. “Good 




I SAW HIM!’ 


reason for that, too. It wouldn’t be good policy, 
eh? Not knowing much that a way about your 
gun toter. You ain’t what I’d call plumb observin’.” 
He leered, as he said this. 

“I take it you never was noted for sayin’ what 
you meant, Bunker,” said Hughes. “You shoot 
words like somebody shot Williams—from under 
cover. You can play your hand any way you want 
to, but I’m goin’ to call it!” 

“You want plain talk?” cried Bunker. “Get this: 
You been losin’ cattle. We've been losin’ cattle, but 
you didn’t know it. When does this Dane show up 
on the scene? After the cattle begins to go. Where 
does he come from? Nobody knows. What’s he 
hangin’ aroun’ the bad lands for? Tell me that. 
Why’s he sneakin’ aroun’ of nights? Why’d he 
hide when the county men was right here in this 
place? How’d he come to be in the trees out there 
when Williams was shot?” 

“How’d you know he was there?” Hughes’ ques¬ 
tion came like the crack of a whiplash. 

“I saw him!” declared Bunker. 

“Well, then, how’d you happen to be there?” 
Hughes inquired mildly. 

“I was lookin’ after cattle down there,” replied 
Bunker readily. 

“What became of him after you saw him?” asked 
the rancher. 

“He lit out, same’s you did. That was a fine 
play, Hughes,” sneered Bunker. “You say I’m a 
bad man, but you don’t have to worry about gettin’ 
shot in the back from me.” 


152 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Hughes' face darkened at the veiled accusation. 
Bunker was trying to make it appear that he had had 
Dane in the trees to shoot Williams in case of 
trouble. He was suspicious of Bunker in connec¬ 
tion with the shooting, but he could not fathom 
why the Flying W foreman should wish to kill 
his employer. 

“The judge will probably be right interested when 
he hears you was hangin’ aroun’ when Williams got 
shot/’ Hughes said pointedly. “I’m still layin’ my bets 
that you know more about that business than you 
want to tell.” 

Bunker’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Two of us 
saw you draw on the old man, an’ we ain’t tellin’ 
what else we saw,” he said, affecting a drawl. 
“The play’s gettin’ out of your hands, Hughes.” 

He stepped toward the door. The man who had 
been standing near him at the bar followed him. 

“There’s just one thing, Bunker,” Hughes called. 
“You can tell Williams that when he gets on his 
feet again, I’m goin’ to fence the strip.” 

“An’ he’ll give you his regards when you start,” 
replied Bunker over his shoulder, as he strode out 
the door. 

A smothered exclamation came from above. Gor¬ 
don Hughes looked up to see Fred standing on the 
balcony near a curtain at its forward end. There 
was a six-shooter in the boy’s hand, and he was 
staring at the door. At his side stood a girl. She 
had both her hands upon his right arm; her lips 
were parted, her eyes bright. She said something 


I SAW HIM F 


to the boy, and he put up his gun, his gaze shifting 
to his father. 

Hughes realized the youth had been ready to fire 
at Bunker, if the man had gone for his gun. He 
smiled with the knowledge, but his smile quickly 
gave way to a frown. 

The boy disappeared behind the curtain. Hughes 
hesitated and then started for the stairway to the 
balcony, as Fred reappeared and came down. 

Willis Brady, proprietor of the place, approached 
Hughes, as they turned to go. 

“I’ve tried to hold Bunker down/’ he said with 
a shrug, “but I can’t always make it stick. I’m 
afraid there’ll be trouble, if that man of yours gets 
in here when Bunker’s in town. I’d hate to have 
any trouble, and-” 

“You’ve got to expect trouble in a place like this,” 
snapped Hughes. “I’ve told my men to keep out of 
it, an’ they’ve backed down more’n once. I reckon 
you know that. , All I’m expectin’ of you is that 
you try to see fair play—if you can.” 

He turned his back on Brady and walked out with 
Fred. 

As they sped toward the Diamond H, with the 
setting sun at their backs, father and son were 
silent. Hughes knew the boy had heard the con¬ 
versation he had had with Bunker. He experienced 
a thrill when he thought of the youth standing by 
the curtain on the balcony ready to shoot if it should 
be necessary. He frowned a bit perplexed, as he 
remembered the attitude of the girl. She had seemed 
to be restraining the boy. There was something 



154 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


about her actions which caused him to wonder just 
what influence she had with Fred. 

“Who was that girl with you on the balcony ?” 
he asked Fred. 

“That’s Marie,” the youth replied, flushing. 

“What’s her last name?” asked his father with 
another frown. 

“I dunno what her last name is,” Fred confessed. 
“Everybody just calls her Marie.” 

“I see,” said Hughes, twisting in his seat and 
looking at his son. “Well, if you want to hang 
aroun’ a dance-hall girl, I suppose I should say I 
expected it. You’re the age when a young man 
tries to rope a little excitement.” 

“Marie’s a good kid,” said Fred stoutly. “She’s 
better’n a lot of ’em that think they’re too nice to 
go into a dance hall.” 

“Good friend of yours?” asked his father, rubbing 
a hand over his big, smooth chin. 

“Yes,” replied Fred. “An’ a good friend of the 
Diamond H, too.” 

“Seems to me that one night this spring when I 
happened in there at The Palace, she was dancin’ 
with Bunker,” observed his father. “Maybe she’s 
got lots of friends, eh?” 

“If she was dancing with him it was because 
she figured she had to,” Fred flared. “She’s workin’ 
there, an’ she ain’t always her own boss.” 

“She didn’t want you to take a shot at Bunker 
to-day, did she?” his father inquired. 

“If she hadn’t been there, I’d have shot Bunker 


'I SAW HIM!” 


155 

when he made like he was goin’ for his gun,” said 
Fred with venom in his tone. 

Gordon Hughes was startled. “Don’t let girls and 
your six-shooter get on your mind, Fred,” he said 
soberly. “Don’t get in any shootin’ scrapes. Shootin’ 
is sure bad stuff.” 

“Well, you got a gunman on the place.” 

“I don’t know that Dane is a gunman,” said 
Gordon Hughes sternly. “I didn’t hire him for a 
gunman, an’ he ain’t said anything to me to make 
me think he’s one. An’ I don’t want you talkin’ 
about his bein’ any such thing.” 

“Well, he didn’t show that he was much afraid 
of Bunker when he was in The Palace that night, 
an’ I’m glad of that,” said Fred. “An’ it wasn’t 
very slow the way he shot the lights out an’ punc¬ 
tured one of Bunker’s men when he tried to draw. 
I’ve got him spotted. He’s no slouch with the 
women, either.” 

Hughes stole a look at his son. “Is Dane one 
of Marie’s friends, too?” he asked. 

Fred scowled darkly. “He wouldn’t let Bunker 
run her down, that’s all I know.” 

“Well, maybe it’s enough,” said Hughes. 

Fred opened the gas throttle to its last notch, and 
the little car careened around a curve near the big 
cottonwood between the two ranches and shot ahead. 
There was no conversation during the rest of the 
ride to the ranch. Gordon Hughes always declared, 
after one of these final spurts, that he was going 
to scrap the car. He made the same statement this 
day when they drew up at the porch. 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


156 

After supper he sat with Dane for a time and 
told him of the words he had had with Bunker. 

“I reckon it’d be wise for you to sort of steer 
clear of town for a while,” he said, as he finished. 

Dane was silent. Then: “I’d hate to have Bunker 
think I was keeping out of town on his account,” 
he drawled. 

The quality of Dane’s tone caused Hughes to 
hold back the advice which was on his tongue. He 
was not altogether sure that he knew the reason, 
but he realized that as a feud had developed between 
Williams and himself, so had a feud developed be¬ 
tween Dane and Bunker. Considering Bunker’s 
ruthlessness, his confidence in his gun hand, and his 
jealousy of his self-confessed and self-vaunted repu¬ 
tation, this feud had a sinister aspect. He looked 
at the man lying on the bed. Youthful, slim, alert 
with a dreamy look in his eyes, Dane more than 
ever gave that appearance of mystery. 

“You’re cornin’ aroun’ fast,” said Hughes by 
way of breaking the silence. 

“I’ll be ridin’ again in a week,” said Dane with 
a flashing smile. 

And such proved to be the case. Hughes went 
up on the north range to look after matters there, 
taking Fred with him. Dane moved from the ranch 
dwelling to the bunk house, where old Marty in¬ 
sisted on “babying” him, as Dane accused. He 
saw little of Esther, and she in turn felt that he 
was avoiding her. As soon as he could remain in 
the saddle any length of time he took to going on 
long rides in the bottoms. 


“I SAW HIM!” 


157 


It was on one of these rides at night that he 
saw a girl ride out of the bad lands. As he swung 
along past the big cottonwood he recognized Marie. 
He put the spurs to his horse and galloped toward 
her. 


CHAPTER XVII 


NIGHT RIDERS 


S Dane rode swiftly in pursuit of the girl, she 



** saw him and gave her horse the spurs, veering 
straight north toward the road which led to town. 
He cut past the big cottonwood and dashed north¬ 
west to head her off, or catch up with her, as she 
gained the road. 

She evidently was depending upon the speed of 
her mount and continued on her course. Dane could 
not help but admire her riding. She was superb 
on a horse—glued to the saddle, as the saying goes. 

But the bay was in fine fettle this night, and 
Dane gained in the spurt. When Marie came close 
to the road she encountered a bank of earth, checked 
her horse in momentary indecision, then turned west¬ 
ward. The brief pause enabled Dane to overtake 
her below the road. She reined in her mount, star¬ 
ing at him out of widened eyes. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed with a glad look. “It is 
Mistair Dane. I thought it was some bad man 
maybe—no? Riding in the night like this?” 

“ ’Pears to me that you’re out kinda late yourself, 
Miss Marie,” Dane drawled. His eyes were sweeping 
the dim plain to southward, where a shadow was 
moving in the direction of the Flying W ranch 
house. They were not the only riders who were 
abroad this night. 


NIGHT RIDERS 


159 


“Do you make a regular practice of riding down 
into the bad lands at night?” he asked, regarding 
her keenly. 

“But no, Mistair Dane,” she said quickly, appearing 
agitated. “It is the cool air I like, an’ the trail 
is good out here.” 

“The road is better goin’ out of Black Butte on 
the other side,” he scowled. “An’, besides that, 
you don’t stick to the road—you switch off south.” 

“I do not have to tell why I ride where I please,” 
she said with a shrug. “Thees ees countree what 
I like.” She swept an arm about in a vague gesture. 
“If I like ride here, why not? I cannot stay 
in that dance hall all night with the smoke an’ not 
get no air. So I ride.” 

“But you ride the same place all the time,” Dane 
accused. 

She seemed startled and eyed him shrewdly. “You 
see me ride before thees time?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied. “You’ve come down here 
before. Marie, you can trust me. I want to be your 
friend. Why do you ride down here? Who do you 
come down here to see?” 

He thought she looked frightened. “I no come 
to see nobody,” she asserted firmly. “You are not the 
gallant man to watch me. If I see somebody I 
no have to tell.” 

“You must have come to see somebody to-night,” 
Dane persisted. “I saw a man ridin’ away from 
down there. You must have-” 

He paused, struck by the wild look in her eyes, 
as she gazed quickly southward. 



160 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

“You see some one?” she asked, plainly disturbed. 

“I saw another rider way down there goin’ 
west. Look here, Marie, you can trust me. Who 
was that rider?” 

“I didn’t see him,” the girl retorted convincingly. 
“Maybe he ride an’ watch me, like you. Why am 
I to be watched thees way? I am ride for pleasure 
an’ the air. I say it.” 

“But that sounds queer just the same,” said 
Dane skeptically. “An’ I wasn’t watching for you 
to-night. I just happened to be ridin’ for exercise. 
Don’t you know it isn’t right safe for you to be 
chasin’ around these prairies near midnight? Who 
do you know might be watchin’ you?” 

“I am not afraid,” she said stoutly. “I have 
thees to keep me by myself.” 

From within her blouse she drew forth a small, 
pearl-handled six-shooter and smiled in dazzling 
triumph. 

Dane snorted—but with admiration, nevertheless. 
“I know you are brave, but you ain’t showin’ good 
judgment. If you ain’t coming down here to meet 
anybody on these rides”—he looked at her sus¬ 
piciously—“you’re takin’ a chance just the same. 
This is a wild place for a girl, a pretty girl like 
you, to be ridin’ aroun’ in late at night.” 

“Ah, it ees night only I like to ride,” she said 
petulantly. Then with a saucy look: “You are 
like to ride at night, too, Mistair Dane.” 

“You might better ride this way in the daytime,” 
he told her with a feeling of irritation. 

He was convinced she had a definite purpose 


NIGHT RIDERS 


161 


in coming to the bad lands. He had followed her 
to the same place once before. And this night 
he had seen a rider going west after she had come 
out of the shadow of the trees and struck off 
for the road. But his questioning was in vain. 
Her guileful answers were suspicious. She was 
cleverly avoiding telling him anything. 

‘Til ride along a way with you,” he told her. 

“Oh, eet ees not necessaire.” She smiled. “I am 
not afraid.” 

Nevertheless he rode two miles with her, while 
they talked of irrelevant things. 

“You must watch Mistair Fred,” she said sud¬ 
denly after a long silence. “He ees maybe get killed 
if don’t be careful.” 

“Eh?” exclaimed Dane, startled. “How is that?” 

“He has the great hate for that Bunker,” said 
Marie, “an’ he will maybe try to kill him. But 
Bunker will not let him do it, for he will—what 
you say?—stop him with a bullet. He will not 
fool, that man, he ees ver’ bad.” 

“How do you know all this?” Dane inquired 
curiously. 

“I have the eyes, an’ I hear the talk,” she said 
soberly. “An’ Bunker say he will kill you, too. 
I hear him when he think no one can hear. He 
ees ver’ angry at you.” 

“Yes, I guess you hear a lot in that place in 
town. Why does Fred want to kill Bunker?” 

Marie shrugged again. Dane was puzzled by 
the dancing light in the eyes she turned upon him. 
The girl was a beauty, he thought to himself. 


162 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“You know Fred?” he asked. 

“But, yes,” she answered laughingly. “I know 
ev’body. They all come to The Palace—even you.” 
She glanced at him roguishly. Then she sobered. 
“Eet is bad place for you to come now, Mistair 
Dane. That Bunker he look for you, an’ he make 
trouble sure. You are not come now for a time?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Dane, checking his horse. 
“I’ll leave you here an’ ride back. I’ve rode more’n 
I intended already. I guess you’ll get in all right, 
but you’d better ride fast. I’d cut out these night 
rides out here if I was you—unless there’s somebody 
you’ve got to see out this way.” 

“Mistair Dane, you have been seeck,” she said 
softly, putting a hand on his arm, as she leaned 
toward him in the saddle. “You are pale. Maybe 
you ride too much to-night.” 

“No, I’m all right,” he replied. “You go on now.” 

“Good night,” she said with a flashing smile. 
“You are watch me so I am safe?” She giggled, 
as she gave her horse the rein and galloped away. 

Dane looked after her, frowning. Mysterious 
actions, these. What could take the girl down there 
near the bad lands, if she did not go to meet some 
one? And who could that some one be? The 
coincidence had a bad look on the face of it; for he 
could not forget that the rider he had glimpsed 
in the south had been riding west on the Flying W 
range. There were no cattle in sight, and therefore 
he could not have been looking after stock. And it 
was midnight! 

He turned about and rode back toward the Dia- 


NIGHT RIDERS 


163 


mond H, pondering the problem. He kept to the 
road and arrived at the barn very tired. Before 
he fell asleep in the bunk house, deserted now save 
for old Marty, Servais, and himself, he had resolved 
to ride every night to the vicinity of the big cotton¬ 
wood. When the girl Marie came that way again 
he would follow her. Sooner or later he would dis¬ 
cover the secret of her midnight pilgrimages into 
the shadow of the bad lands. 

During the days which followed he recovered 
practically all his strength. He practiced much with 
the new gun which Gordon Hughes had brought 
him from the county seat. And every night he rode 
down to the bottoms. 

Esther Hughes came upon him several times, as 
he was getting the “hang” and “feel” of the new 
weapon. She told at the table in the ranch house 
of Dane’s proficiency at drawing and shooting with 
marvelous rapidity and hitting the mark . 

Her mother looked a bit worried. 

“I’d like to see him and Bunker matched,” said 
Esther one day. 

“Why, Esther!” exclaimed her mother. “How 
can you say such a thing?” 

“Well, if he has to be a gunman he might as 
well be a good one,” said Esther with a shrug. “An’ 
I’ll bet he’s faster than Bunker!” 

“I thought you told me you couldn’t tolerate men 
who believed in guns,” said her mother with a queer 
smile. “Isn’t that what you said when you came 
back from the East?” 

“I don’t believe in gun law,” said Esther calmly, 


164 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“any more now than I did when I got back this 
spring. But I don’t see where what I think makes 
much difference around here. We’ve had one shoot¬ 
ing, and one of our men was nearly killed since I 
returned, and it looks as if we would have to protect 
ourselves some way.” 

She left her mother mystified at her change of 
sentiment. Esther herself felt mystified at some 
kind of a change which had taken place in Dane. 
Apparently he avoided her studiously. He adroitly 
circumvented the various subterfuges to which she 
resorted in the attempt to be with him and get 
him into conversation. She had tried to apologize 
for her words and what they conveyed that morning 
when he had returned to the ranch so ill, but he 
had shut her off with a hard laugh and a baffling 
look in his eyes. 

He had been silent during the hours she had 
sat with him when he was recovering from the 
fever, merely thanking her for what she did for 
him. He had repelled with that peculiar, quizzical 
look of his her repeated friendly advances. He had 
all but verbally refused to ride with her! 

This left her piqued and resentful, but more curious 
about him than ever. She conjured up all manner of 
conjectures as to his past. Was he merely a cow- 
puncher who happened to be an expert with his 
gun—or was he a killer, an outlaw, perhaps a 
fugitive ? 

During the wildest moments of his delirium he 
had said nothing which would give her a clew 
to any incident of the closed book of his life before 


NIGHT RIDERS 


165 

arriving at the Diamond H. It was as though he 
had dropped from the sky. And night after night, 
as she watched from her window, she saw him ride 
forth with his face turned up to the stars. His 
attitude of aloofness hurt her pride, too. She came 
to feel that he was deliberately snubbing her. There¬ 
after she ignored him. And then one night she, too, 
rode abroad under the stars. 

Instead of going down in the bottoms she cantered 
up the road to the bench land and sped northward. 
It was a peculiar night, with choppy clouds riding 
the skies and the moon drifting in and out in 
feathery formations, casting weird shadows upon the 
hazy surface of the plain. 

She rode thus for an hour and then turned back. 
The mood of the night cast its spell upon her; 
she felt nervous, strangely excited without reason. 
She reached the road at a point beyond the disputed 
strip between the two ranches and rode slowly back. 
She dismounted by the big cottonwood, patted her 
horse’s nose, and spoke to him softly to bring back 
her composure. 

It was then that she saw a rider coming on the 
road from the direction of town. The moon dis¬ 
appeared behind a cloud, and when it emerged the 
rider was close and was turning southward off 
the road. She recognized the girl who had been 
pointed out to her in town as “Marie of The 
Palace.” If the girl saw her, she gave no evidence 
of it, but sped swiftly southward and vanished. 

Then Esther saw another rider, whom she recog¬ 
nized instantly by the posture in the saddle, dart 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


166 

out from the shadows far below and ride madly for 
the place where the girl had disappeared. 

For some moments Esther stood staring, her eyes 
wide and glowing with amazing comprehension. The 
second rider was soon out of sight in the shadow 
at the edge of the bad lands. Still Esther stood, 
holding her reins and looking vaguely about her. 
Her lips trembled, then curled in fine scorn. 

“So that explains his night rides,” she said aloud. 
“Keeping a rendezvous with a dance-hall girl! I 
might have known it.” 

She mounted in disgust and rode back to the 
ranch house at a furious gallop. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


RUSTLERS 

A S Esther Hughes rode down from the bench 
land, Dane had watched her wonderingly. He 
saw her enter the shadow under the cottonwood 
and had lost sight of her when the moon disap¬ 
peared. And when the moon had come out again 
he saw Marie coming on the road from town. He 
forgot Esther. 

He watched Marie ride down the strip, and he 
marked as well as he could the spot where she 
vanished in the shadow. A few moments later he 
dashed to the spot and pulled up his horse in wonder. 
The girl was nowhere to be seen. He could see for 
some distance up and down the bottoms near the 
edge of the bad lands, but she was not in sight. 

There could be but one explanation of this: 
she had entered the bad lands! 

Dane rode back and forth, again searching for a 
trail into the brakes at this point. It was the same 
place where the girl had eluded him the night he 
had followed her from town. This fact convinced 
him that there was some kind of a trail leading 
into the fastnesses along the river from that spot. 

He rode in in the same ravine he had entered 
the night he had become lost, studied it by the 
fitful light of the moon—abandoned it. He took to 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


168 

the low ridges which began at that point, and again 
he had to turn back. He paused to listen and heard 
only the whisper of the wind in the stunted pines 
and buckbushes. He entered a wider and deeper 
ravine a little to westward and brought up against 
a barrier of trees and undergrowth. 

Again and again he ventured into the shadows 
of the wild lands toward the river, only to emerge 
defeated. He could not find a trail. He could hear 
nothing but the chant of the wind. He gave it 
up at last and, withdrawing into the shadow at the 
base of a ridge, where he had a good view of the 
bottom in both directions, sat in the saddle to wait 
until Marie should come out. 

If there was a man with her, he would find out 

who he was. If she were alone- He frowned 

as he recalled his last effort to get her to speak. 

For an hour he waited, longing for the company 
of a smoke, but fearing to disclose his presence by 
the flare of a match or the glow of a cigarette. 
Then sounds were borne to him on the wind. He 
looked about and listened intently, endeavoring to 
determine from which direction they came. Gradually 
the west and north stretches were eliminated, and 
Dane decided that the sound he heard came from the 
bottoms eastward. 

He rode slowly in that direction, keeping close 
in the shadow. As he rode cautiously along the 
edge of the bottom land the sounds became more 
distinct; but they were farther away than he had 
thought. He halted again to listen and then rode 
ahead at a swifter pace. He still kept within the 



RUSTLERS 


169 


shadow, and his right hand rested on the butt of his 
gun. He crossed the strip of unknown land and 
then swerved quickly into the deeper shadow and 
halted. He had seen the dim outlines of a horse 
and rider ahead. 

The volume of sound riding on the wind had 
increased, although it still was of a subdued nature, 
punctuated by a dull, rhythmical pounding. Dane’s 
practiced ear at once caught the significance of the 
sounds. They were caused by the impact of many 
hoofs upon the soft ground. 

He dismounted, trailed his reins, and, leaving his 
horse in the shelter of a clump of buckbushes be¬ 
neath the trees, climbed to the crest of a low ridge 
which jutted out of the fringe of the bad lands. 
From his new point of vantage he had a good view 
of the bottoms, and he caught his breath at the 
sight revealed in the dim moonlight. 

The whole herd of a hundred cattle, which had 
been run in the bottoms at his request, was on the 
move. And the cattle were rapidly disappearing in 
the bad lands! Dane saw three riders working the 
herd. He could not determine who they were, 
and their work was aided by the clouds which 
continually obscured the moon, breaking only occa¬ 
sionally to flood the scene with light for a few 
fleeting moments. 

As Dane watched, the last of the cattle drew 
close to the shadow at the edge of the brakes. The 
rustlers were running off the entire herd! Despite 
the seriousness of the situation, Dane smiled at 
the intrepid boldness of the cattle thieves. Lucky 


170 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


he had seen them—had been on the spot. It would 
take time to get the herd through the bad lands 
and across the river, if such was the plan of the 
rustlers, and he could think of no other logical 
course for them to pursue. 

It was a foolhardy piece of work, he reflected; 
for, even if the cattle had not been missed until 
morning, there would still have been time to scour 
the brakes, pick up the trail, and follow at a far 
greater speed than the cattle could be driven. 

What were the rustlers thinking of? Were they 
rank beginners at the game? As the last of the 
herd and the riders disappeared, Dane climbed down 
from the top of the ridge and mounted. He rode 
back a short distance and then cut north to the 
road. He did not fear pursuit, even if seen, as 
the three men would have their hands full guiding 
the cattle through the brakes. Perhaps it was their 
intention to set the herd adrift in the bad lands, 
split it up and scatter it. He scouted this theory, 
however, when he recalled that there had been other 
cattle run off the Diamond H that spring. 

He rode rapidly back to the bunk house and 
woke the little wrangler, Servais. He explained mat¬ 
ters to him hurriedly, and Servais hastened to the 
corral for his horse, saddled and joined Dane in 
front of the barn. 

They rode swiftly to the lower edge of the bottoms 
and proceeded westward. Dane had judged that the 
cattle had been run into the trail which the stallion 
had taken—the only good trail leading into the bad 
lands thereabouts, of which he knew. He asked 


RUSTLERS 


171 

Servais if there was another good trail, and the 
wrangler shook his head. Cautiously they approached 
the beginning of the trail, keeping well in the shadow 
of the trees, skirting the ends of the ridges, which 
here flattened out on the floor of the bottoms. 

Dane held up a hand and checked his horse, as 
they drew near where the cattle had been driven in. 
He listened, but the movement of the herd was no 
longer distinguishable by sound. All was silence, 
save for the murmur of the wind. He spoke to 
Servais in a low voice. 

“Our play is to trail ’em,” he said softly. “Follow 
’em an’ find out who they are, an’ what they figure 
on doin’ with the cattle. Maybe we’ll find out 
where the rest of the missin’ stock went to. They 
can’t get that bunch across the river before daylight, 
if that’s where they’re goin’. We’ll take it easy, 
only keep your ears an’ eyes open, for they may have 
left a man behind to take a shot at anybody that 
might come moseyin’ along.” 

Servais nodded that he understood and agreed 
with the wisdom of this course. The wrangler’s 
eyes were gleaming brightly with suppressed excite¬ 
ment. 

“This trail cuts south to the river from the 
meadow where we saw the hermit, the day we 
chased the stallion,” he told Dane in an undertone. 
“Better let your horse pick the trail, for it’ll be 
dark among the trees, an’ watch out for the soap 
holes.” 

Slowly they rode into the trail and walked their 
horses into the dense shadow ahead. Dane rode in 


172 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


the lead, with the wrangler following him closely. 
They halted occasionally to listen; while Dane thought 
he could hear faint sounds ahead, he was not sure 
of it. 

They waited a short time before venturing around 
the first soap hole, the surface of which gleamed 
ghostly white, as the moon shone though a thin 
film of cloud. The cattle had gone round it on 
either side, as their tracks showed. But the ne¬ 
gotiating of this difficult place had slowed up the 
movement of the herd temporarily, and Dane and 
Servais now could hear sounds ahead. 

Dane judged by the sound that the rustlers were 
trying to hurry the cattle. They would probably be 
less cautious now that they assumed they had run off 
the herd without being seen; or, if they had seen 
him when he started back to the ranch, they might 
show haste in an effort to get the cattle away ahead 
of pursuit. Dane would not have gone back for 
Servais, had it not been for the fact that, while 
he had nearly regained his normal health and strength, 
he still was subject to spells of weakness. Hard 
riding, or a running fight with the rustlers, might 
bring on one of these spells and place him at the 
mercy of the cattle thieves, in which event his 
knowledge of their operations would be worthless. 

As he rode slowly along the trail, he suddenly 
was struck by the remarkable coincidence that the 
running off of the cattle should take place on the 
occasion of one of Marie’s visits to the bad lands. 
He had forgotten her in the new trend of events. 
What had become of her? Was she in some way 


RUSTLERS 


173 


connected with the strange happenings of the night? 
His suspicions, smoldering before, now flared into 
flame. If she was in league with the rustlers it 
would explain her mysterious rides. But he could 
not determine in what way she could be of any 
use to the thieves. 

They waited again at the second soap hole. They 
could hear the pound of hoofs close ahead and occa¬ 
sionally a shout, as one of the riders apparently 
strove to hurry the stragglers, or to keep the cattle 
to the trail. The movement of the herd was slow, 
necessarily so because of the winding trail and the 
darkness. Just below the soap hole the trail swerved 
to the west toward the meadow and the clearing 
wherein was the cabin of the hermit. As they 
reached this turn in the trail there was a flash on 
the ridge to the right above them, and a bullet 
whined over their heads. 

Dane’s gun leaped into his hand, and he fired 
twice at the spot where he had seen the flash, 
whirled his horse about and dashed into the trees, 
as two more shots came from the ridge, and bullets 
clipped the leaves about him. Servais was fir¬ 
ing from somewhere to his right. Three bullets 
the little wrangler sent whistling up the ridge 
before he, too, sought the shelter of the trees. 

Now the firing ceased. There were no more shots 
from the ridge. The sounds ahead became fainter. 
Dane guided his horse through the trees and under¬ 
brush until he found Servais coming toward him. 
After a wait of a few minutes they again proceeded 


174 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


cautiously along the trail, keeping well within the 
shadow of the trees on either side. 

Dane would have preferred to dash ahead, give 
battle to the rustlers, kill or capture them if possible, 
and recover the cattle at one stroke; but he thought 
by following them it might be possible to find out 
what had become of the cattle stolen earlier in the 
season. And the result of a fight with the rustlers 
now would be doubtful, as the moon had disap¬ 
peared behind a thick veil of lowering clouds which 
had spread over the entire sky, obscuring the stars 
and leaving the bad lands in utter darkness. 

They felt, rather than saw, the meadow near the 
hermit’s clearing when they reached it. 

"We better wait here till it gets a little light,” 
said Servais in a whisper. "It’s almost morniiT, 
an’ then we can tell which way they’ve taken the 
cattle.” 

"Why, I heard ’em south of here,” said Dane. 

"I know, but the trail there splits up like 
a Chinese puzzle,” returned the wrangler. "We 
can catch up with ’em fast enough when we’re sure 
just what way they’re goin’. Maybe they’ll divide 
the herd, an’ you’ll have to go one way an’ me 

another. Best to wait. It won’t be long.” 

Dane realized the logic of this and gave in. 
They sat their horses under the trees for a time 
and then dismounted to stretch their legs. Dane 

was feeling the reaction from the exciting events 
of the night, but he said nothing to Servais. In 

a short time a drizzling rain began to fall. It 

filtered through the branches of the trees, and both 


RUSTLERS 


175 


men put on the slickers which had been tied behind 
their saddles. The rains increased as the first 
glimmer of dawn showed in the gray skies, and 
they again took to their saddles. 

The trail left by the stolen herd was plainly ob¬ 
servable. It led south from the big meadow, and 
Dane and the wrangler started in pursuit. The way 
now led straight toward the river. Their horses soon 
were splashing through puddles of water in the trail, 
as the rain became a downpour, with the rising wind 
whipping it into their faces in blinding sheets. 

Intersecting trails in large numbers appeared, but 
they had no difficulty in following the tracks left 
by the cattle. In time, however, these new tracks 
became harder to distinguish from old tracks, and 
several times the pair had to stop and make sure 
they were on the trail of the stolen herd. Then 
came a sudden interruption. 

Sounds could be heard ahead, sounds which in¬ 
dicated the rustlers were having trouble with the 
cattle. And from a bend in the trail a short distance 
ahead came the crack of a gun, and bullets whistled 
past them. 

Again they took to the trees, as their guns blazed 
at a figure which vanished round the bend. Then 
Dane moved forward in the timber at the left of 
the trail, while Servais did likewise on the right 
side. They came to the bend, cut through the trees 
to the trail, and were met by another fusillade. One 
of the bullets cut through the skirt of Dane’s slicker. 
He saw a rider some distance before him whirling 
his horse in the trail for flight, and his gun roared. 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


176 

The rider ahead slumped in his saddle. His horse 
turned and started down the trail. The wounded man 
fell on the left, his boot caught in the stirrup, and 
the horse plunged on, kicking and dragging him. 

Dane shoved his gun into its holster and loosed 
his rope, dashing in pursuit, with Servais close behind 
him. The rope whirled in the air, its noose shaking 
out, and then the horse ahead broke loose from its 
helpless burden. 

Dane and Servais dismounted beside the man on 
the ground. The wrangler was the first to reach him, 
and after a quick examination he straightened and 
looked about grimly. 

“Shot in the side an’ kicked to a pulp,” he said. 
“He’s dead.” 

It was true. Whether Dane’s bullet had been 
fatal or not, the man’s horse had finished him. His 
face was literally torn to pieces by the shoes of the 
horse. It was not recognizable. The features were 
literally obliterated. 

Dane drew the body in under the trees and 
searched the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing 
save tobacco and matches and a few odds and ends, 
such as might be found in any cow-puncher’s pockets. 
There was nothing to identify the rustlers. 

“Can’t do anything here,” Dane muttered. “He 
pretty near got me, too, as I shoved through the 
brush back there at the bend.” 

Mounting, they again took up the trail. They 
could hear sounds ahead, but these sounds were 
rapidly becoming fainter, despite the fact that Dane 
and the wrangler were riding fast. 


RUSTLERS 


177 


Had the rustlers reached the river? Were they 
swimming the cattle across? They galloped ahead, 
entering a wide place where the trail ran straight 
between two high ridges. High on the right came 
the crack of a gun, and a bullet spattered the mud 
in the trail under Dane’s horse’s hoofs. Again they 
swerved into the protection of the trees, as another 
shot sounded, and a leaden messenger of death whined 
past them. They looked up the sharp slope on the 
right. Another shot greeted them, but the aim was 
wide. Then both Dane and Servais shouted in sur¬ 
prise. 

Standing on the rock-ribbed crest of the ridge, 
hatless, his white hair flying in the wind, which 
was hurling the rain against him, bracing, himself 
against the ferocity of the blast and holding a rifle 
in his hands, ready for action, was the hermit of 
the bad lands! 

He was looking down in their direction, and, 
even as they stared at him in astonishment, he 
brought the gun to his shoulder and sent a bullet 
crashing toward them. Then he disappeared be¬ 
hind the rocks, as Dane and Servais fired simul¬ 
taneously. 

They remained motionless for a moment, staring 
at the bleak spine of the ridge; then they sent their 
horses dashing for the steep slope and began the 
ascent, as bullets whistled over their heads. 



CHAPTER XIX 


THE SOUVENIR 

T AKING advantage of every bit of cover which 
offered on the side of the ridge, Dane and 
Servais made difficult targets, dodging in and out 
of the trees, under overhanging rocks, behind out¬ 
croppings and boulders, zigzagging about, hunting a 
trail. 

By the time they were halfway up the slope the 
firing from above ceased. The going became harder, 
and finally they brought up at the base of a series 
of cliffs. They rode southward under the cliffs until 
they came to a place where they could again climb. 
It was so steep here that they dismounted and led 
their horses. 

The last slope was strewn with huge rocks which 
offered them protection from the fire of the hermit 
on the top of the ridge. It enabled them to make 
fast headway without fear of being shot down by 
a chance bullet. They redoubled their caution, how¬ 
ever, as they approached the summit, and finally, 
with Dane in the lead, they rode out upon the 
crest of the ridge, with their guns in their hands, 
ready to return the fire which they expected from 
the hermit. 

But no shots came. Nor was the hermit anywhere 
in sight. They rode against the wind and rain 


THE SOUVENIR 


179 


along the crest of the ridge, winding in and out 
among the boulders and rock outcroppings, search¬ 
ing for some sign of the old man who had been 
shooting at them. But they couldn’t find a trace 
of him. 

Dane saw some empty shells on the ground where, 
he assumed, the hermit had stood when he was 
firing at them, but that was the only tangible evi¬ 
dence that he ever had been there. 

They next searched along the west side of the 
ridge. They knew their quarry could not very well 
be on the eastern slope which they had ascended, 
and the western slope offered excellent cover for a 
get-away. It was thickly timbered below the rocks, 
just under the summit, and Dane realized it had been 
easy for the hermit to slip down into the trees and 
make his escape. 

“He’s gone, hide an’ hair,” he said to Servais. 
“No use lookin’ for him down there. I reckon that 
old coyote knows every foot of these bad lands, 
like a stud fiend knows his ace in the hole.” 

Servais was looking southward. “No sign of the 
herd,” he said. “Looks to me sort of like that 
old devil worked a game to pull us off the rustlers’ 
trail. There’s the river—you can see the slope 
leadin’ down to it, an’ not a cow in sight.” 

Dane’s brow wrinkled in thought. There was 
something in what the wrangler had said. It did 
look as if the hermit had stopped them and brought 
them up the ridge on a wild-goose chase. If that was 
the case, the hermit was working with the rustlers. 
Dane remembered the enormous supply of food in 


180 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

the hermit’s cellar and scowled darkly. Supplies 
for the rustlers, of course. And this, too, explained 
why the hermit lived in the bad lands. 

“Wasn’t crazy after all,” he muttered to himself. 
“Well,” he said to Servais, “now that we’ve got 
the old man’s number, we know where to find him— 
if he ever goes back home. I know where his 

cabin is. Let’s hit down toward the river an’ see 

if we can catch up with the rustlers. There’s only 
two of ’em now—if the hermit ain’t along.” 

They rode across the ridge and back down to the 
trail. By this time the rain, still falling in sheets, 
had obliterated the tracks of the cattle, and where 
they still showed it was impossible to determine 
whether they were new or \>ld tracks. 

However, it was only a short distance from the 
lower end of the ridge to the slope which led 

down to the river. The trail was broad, and the 
trails intersecting it were narrow and seemed to be 
merely leading into it. They were approaching a 
well-defined ford of the river. They took to the 
shelter of the trees and rode slowly. But they saw 
nothing. The wild desolation of the broken, tumbled 
country was as if its solitude never had been violated 
by man. The rain fell with less violence, and the 
wind abated somewhat. There was no sound, save 
the splashing of their horses in the water which 

filled small depressions in the ground, the patter of 
the rain on the dripping leaves, and the whistle of 
the wind in the branches. 

In a short time they came to the slope which 
led down to the river. It was now a veritable mud 



THE SOUVENIR 


181 


flat. The mark of the recent high water still showed 
upon the trunks of the trees, and the horses sank 
to their knees in the mud under the trees and about 
the bushes. They rode out to the firmer ground on 
the beaten trail. 

When they reached the edge of the river slope 
they halted and looked up and down stream. No 
one was in sight; nor were any cattle to be seen. 
There were no tracks which looked fresh, even on 
those pieces of muddy ground near at hand which 
were free from water. 

“Don’t look like they got ’em across,” observed 
Servais. 

“I don’t reckon they’d ’ave had time anyway,” 
said Dane, looking puzzled. “We were pretty close 
behind ’em when the hermit butted in. They couldn’t 
have got ’em across an’ out of sight over on that 
clear bank over there in the time they had. What 
do you think, Servais?” 

Servais shook his head. “Don’t believe they could 
have made it,” he replied. “They’ve drove ’em off 
the trail an’ have got ’em cached aroun’ here some¬ 
where. Or, maybe, they tried to scatter ’em an’ left 
’em, knowin’ we was close behind.” 

“They was havin’ a hard time with ’em a little 
while back by the sounds we heard,” Dane reflected 
aloud. “It might just be that the herd bolted on 
’em an’ struck into the timber.” 

“In any case they’d have to cross one of those 
ridges back there,” Servais pointed out. “An’ I 
figure they’d have to be driven to take to the ridges. 


182 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

/ 

Anyway we better look aroun’—you go east, an’ 
I’ll go west. But look out that you don’t get lost. 
If we cut back up to the ridge, where the hermit 
was shootin’ from, we ought to find tracks some¬ 
where under the trees where the rain didn’t come 
down so hard.” 

Dane readily agreed to this method of procedure, 
and they separated to search for signs of the missing 
herd. Dane entered the bad lands to the east and, 
after going in a short distance, swung directly 
north. He held his course by landmarks established 
on the tops of three small ridges which he crossed. 
And finally he came to the wide ravine below the 
ridge from which the hermit had shot at them. He 
had seen no tracks which looked as though recently 
made; none which appeared like the trail which would 
be left by a herd of a hundred cattle. He frowned 
impatiently as he waited for Servais. 

The wrangler followed Dane’s system. He rode 
westward from the trail and also cut north up a 
broad ravine. He came to a barrier of trees—jack 
pines which grew very close together—and climbed 
the slope of the ridge to the west. This ridge 
was thickly timbered, and, unlike other ridges in that 
section, its crest was overgrown with trees and under¬ 
brush. He was unable to see down on either side, 
as he rode along this ridge, but he saw no tracks 
upon it and knew the cattle hadn’t crossed it. 

Continuing north he eventually recognized the tall 
ridge where they had hunted for the hermit on 
his right. He cut up through the timber on its 
western side and down its steep eastern slope and 


THE SOUVENIR 183 

joined Dane. He smiled in resignation, as he saw 
the look in Dane’s face. 

“Nary sign,” he said. “You didn’t find anything?” 

Dane made a negative gesture. “Whatever they 
did with that herd is past me,” he said, confessing 
his perplexity. “They couldn’t have got ’em across 
the river—I wonder now if they could have got ’em 
across the river.” 

“Not a chance,” said Servais with absolute con¬ 
viction. “They didn’t have time, in the first place; 
an’ did you notice how swift that water was runnin’? 
It would have carried those cattle down stream. An’ 
there’s steep banks on the other side below here. 
They’d have one big time gettin’ ’em out. An’ if 
they’d drove ’em in an’ let ’em go, some of ’em 
would have showed over there. They’ve cached those 
cattle in here somewhere.” 

“Maybe so,” Dane ruminated. “But where? 
That’s what we want to know.” 

Servais shrugged. “I reckon those fellers know 
this country better’n we do. We’d have been able 
to track ’em if it hadn’t been for the rain. An’ 
now that its cut us out of gettin’ ’em, it’s goin’ 
to stop.” 

Dane noted that the rain was indeed about over. 
The wind had died down to a whisper. He felt 
tired, weak, and he was hungry. 

“There’s one man aroun’ here that can tell us 
where those cattle are, an’ I’m going to make him 
talk,” he said savagely. 

Servais nodded. “I reckon you mean the hermit.” 

Dane scowled darkly. “We’ll hit back for the 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


184 

meadow this side of his clearin’, scout aroun’ for a 
look, an’ then we’ll pay him a visit,” he said, 
putting the spurs to his horse. 

They rode back along the trail to the big meadow. 
Here they turned west and entered the little grove 
of alders which separated the meadow from the 
hermit’s clearing. They peered through the branches, 
but could see no one in sight. There was no smoke 
coming from the cabin; there were no horses about. 

“We’ll make a run for it,” decided Dane. 

He struck out in the lead, and they dashed around 
the edge of the clearing to the cabin. Dane flung 
himself from the saddle and kicked the door open. 
The cabin was deserted. 

“Didn’t expect no such luck as findin’ him here,” 
he said, as he stepped inside. 

“Maybe he’ll beat it now that we’re on to him,” 
said the little wrangler, following Dane in. “I 
reckon he spread that story about him bein’ a 
spirit himself just to make folks leery of him.” 

Dane sat down on the bench and took a drink 
of water. The night’s ride and excitement had told 
upon him—drawn heavily upon his newly recruited 
strength. He felt weak and a bit dizzy. 

Servais noticed this. “Reckon this has been a big 
order right on top of that sick spell of yours,” he 
said, looking concerned. “That was a bad crack on 
the head somebody dealt you.” 

Dane started. It was the hermit who had picked 
him up after he had been hit. And now it was 
the hermit who had prevented them from overtaking 


THE SOUVENIR 185 

the rustlers. A coincidence? Dane smiled ruefully. 
He might have known it. 

“I’m goin’ to make some coffee,” said Servais, 
going to the stove. “Maybe by the time we get 
some coffee an’ something to eat he’ll show up.” 

Dane reclined on the bunk, while the other built 
a fire, found the coffeepot and coffee, cut some 
bacon from a part of a slab on the table, discovered 
some cold potatoes and bread, and went speedily 
about getting breakfast. 

As the warmth from the fire in the stove per¬ 
meated the cabin, Dane fell asleep. He awoke to find 
Servais shaking him by the shoulders. 

“C’me on an’ eat,” said the wrangler. “I’ve puttered 
aroun’ an’ held off an’ let you sleep two hours, 
till I’m scared I’ll go to sleep myself. If that old 
devil an’ his pals would show up an’ find us both 
snorin’, it might turn out bad for us.” 

Dane rose with a laugh. He felt better, rested. 
The nap had been just what he needed most. They 
sat down to a breakfast of fried bacon and potatoes, 
bread and sirup, and steaming cups of strong, 
fragrant coffee. 

Dane could almost feel his strength returning. He 
even joked about their failure to locate the cattle 
and get the rustlers, saying that they could not get 
jobs as detectives with the Cattlemen’s Association 
on the strength of their night and morning’s work. 

Servais raised his coffee cup with a grin and 
held it out, as if to toast the other. A gun barked 
on the slope of the ridge behind the cabin, there was 


186 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


a splintering of glass, and the cup was shattered 
to bits. 

'‘Somebody’s sent us a souvenir,” said Servais, 
as they leaped away from the table. 

“The hermit!” Dane exclaimed. 

“An’ more of ’em!” cried the wrangler, as several 
bullets crashed through the windowpane and em¬ 
bedded themselves in the log wall opposite. 


CHAPTER XX 

“don't hurt him!” 

r "PHE little wrangler crouched upon the floor at 
*“■ one end of the table trembling with anger, look¬ 
ing at Dane, white-faced. 

“They'd have shot us down like dogs!” he ex¬ 
claimed. “Hidin’ up there in the trees an’ tryin’ to 
pot us!” 

“I don’t figure they wanted to hit us,” was Dane’s 
surprising reply. “They could have got us if they’d 
wanted to. Look how deep in some of those bullets 
went. The old hermit, anyway, has got a rifle, an’ I 
reckon he can shoot pretty straight. He didn’t try to 
hit us from the ridge, I take it, an’ he figured to 
scare us here. I’m believin’ they don’t want a pair 
of killings, but would powerful well like to capture 
us.” 

“Maybe you’re right,” growled the wrangler; “but 
shootin’ the cup out of my hand is gettin’ too close 
for me. I’m goin’ to show ’em we’re still up an’ 
wigglin’.” 

He emptied his six-shooter through the window 
toward the slope. 

“That won’t do any good,” said Dane. “Might 
as well save your shells. Might need ’em before 
we get out of this.” 

He went to the door and put the bar across it. 


188 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“Keep out of line with that window, Servais,” 
he cautioned, as the little wrangler strove to peer out. 
“I don’t understand their play a little bit,” he 
went on in a lower tone. “They’re either tryin’ to 
throw a scare into us, or figure to keep us here till 
dark an’ then pull off whatever stunt they’ve got 
in mind. I’ve got it in my head that they was 
watchin’ us all the mornin’. Anyways, they haven’t 
gone away with the cattle, an’ that’s worth knowing.” 

“Listen,” said Servais, sitting on the head of the 
bunk well to one side of the window. “The two 
rustlers couldn’t have been watchin’ us. They was 
caching the cattle somewheres. But I’ll bet the old 
hermit had his eye on us. They met up with him 
after we left down there an’ started back for the 
cabin. Then they saw the smoke, when I was gettin’ 
breakfast, and sneaked around on the slope to get 
a look at us. Now they’re keepin’ us in here till 
they figure out what they’re goin’ to do to us, or 
with us.” 

“Or till they ask somebody else what to do,” 
said Dane, his gaze narrowing. “I’ve been countin’ 
right along that there was something more behind 
this business than just runnin’ off with a hundred 
head or so of cattle. There’s some kind of a gang 
workin’ in here, Servais. We’ve killed one of ’em, 
an’ they’ll more’n likely have it in for us for that, 
an’ we’ve seen two others an’ the hermit. But 
Gordon Hughes told me that Bunker said the Flyin’ 
W was losin’ stock, too. That means they’re workin . 
An’ they must be pretty sure of gettin’ away with 


“DON’T HURT HIM!” 189 

the cattle to steal ’em as wide open as they went at it 
last night.” 

“If they’re so sure of themselves, that’s all the 
more reason they wouldn’t care if they plugged us,” 
said Servais, examining his gun after reloading it. 

“No, a double shootin’ would stir up too much 
fuss,” said Dane. “I don’t reckon they want to 
make things any harder for themselves than they can 
help, at this stage of the game. Anyway, I’m goin’ 
to try ’em out.” 

Servais looked at him with concern. 

“Where are the horses?” Dane asked, with a 
glance at the two saddles which they had brought 
into the cabin. 

“They’re in that little corral out behind,” replied 
Servais wonderingly. “Look out close to that side 
of the window, an’ you ought to be able to see ’em.” 

Dane looked and gave a nod of satisfaction. 

“They made one mistake,” he said grimly. “They 
didn’t get the horses before they let us know they 
were aroun’. Now if they try to get ’em they’ll 
put themselves in hittin’ range.” 

“We’ll take turns watchin’ the horses out that 
side,” Servais suggested. “How was you figurin’ 
on trying out those gents on the slope?” 

For answer Dane held his hat partially in view 
at the side of the window. A shot came from 
the timbered slope, and a bullet buried itself in the 
window casing just above the hat. Dane withdrew 
the hat immediately and smiled knowingly at the 
little wrangler. 

“You see?” he said. “They ain’t shootin’ to kill 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


190 

anybody. I tell you they’re holdin’ us here an’ 
waitin’ for something or somebody.” 

“I don’t see why they wanted to make a target 
of that cup, while we was eatin’, to let us know 
they was aroun’,” grumbled Servais who plainly was 
not convinced. 

“I’ve got it thought out that the half-crazy 
hermit did that an’ started the ball rollin’,” replied 
Dane. “Sore, maybe, because we had the cabin an’ 
was eatin’ his grub. Maybe he didn’t have any 
orders. There’s grub enough under this floor, 
Servais, to feed fifty. That’s another reason why 
I think there’s a bigger gang than we know anything 
about.” 

Servais watched him moodily, while he built a 
cigarette. 

“Does look as though they was kind of bungling 
the play because there’s nobody aroun’ to boss the 
job,” he conceded at last. 

For some time they were silent. Dane kept watch 
in the direction of the little corral, where the horses 
were, and Servais looked out the side of the window 
toward the slope. There were no more shots. An 
ominous silence prevailed. 

Although the rain had ceased, and the wind had 
died down, the sky still was overcast with drifting 
gray clouds. It also had turned cold. Dane fed 
wood to the fire from a box behind the stove. 

In half an hour Servais changed places with him, 
and he looked about the cabin to see if the hermit 
had any letters or other papers which might shed 
some light on his identity and activities in the 


'DON’T HURT HIM!” 


191 

locality. However, he found nothing of any im¬ 
portance. Then he got down on his hands and 
knees, pulled aside the piece of carpet on the floor, 
and lifted the trapdoor to the cellar. 

Servais whistled, as he looked down at the pro¬ 
visions stored in the cellar. Dane slipped down and 
made a quick examination. There were several sacks 
of potatoes, many cases of canned goods, bacon, 
ham, vegetables, sugar, flour, salt, and cartridges for 
a forty-five-caliber six-gun and a thirty-thirty rifle. 
There were also four pack sacks which were strapped 
full. He emptied these and found they contained 
such provisions as a man would need on the trail. 
He repacked them and put them back. After a 
final look around he climbed out and replaced the 
trapdoor and the carpet. An hour passed, and noth¬ 
ing eventful happened. 

Dane suddenly had an idea. “If they’ve sent for 
somebody, or for orders, there can’t be more’n one 
man with the hermit,” he said, staring at Servais 
with evident inspiration. 

“An’ those two can shoot us from the trees, if 
we got to movin’ aroun’,” was the sensible rejoinder. 
“We’ve got to play their game an’ .wait for dark, 
if that’s what they’re waiting for.” 

Dane lapsed into silence once more. Servais was 
right, but the inactivity necessitated by their position 
irked him. He would have welcomed an attack on 
the cabin—anything to break the monotony of the 
long wait for darkness. But at any cost he was 
resolved to make a break for it with the coming 
of night. 


192 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


As the afternoon wore on, seconds became minutes, 
and minutes became hours to the two men in the 
cabin. They took turn and turn about, maintaining 
a vigil at the side of the window, where a watch 
could be kept on the corral. Servais, ever alert to 
the care of horses, complained that their mounts 
had not been watered. This, and the fact that they 
should be feeding, seemed to worry him more than 
anything else. To divert his thoughts Dane got 
Servais to talk about the big, black stallion, Jupiter. 

“How’d you ever come to be able to ride him?” 
he asked. 

“I made friends with him/’ replied the little 
wrangler with a touch of pride. “He knows me, 
and he’ll do most anything I want him to do. 
There’s a horse” 

Dane listened casually, while Servais cited with 
enthusiasm the stallion’s good points. Later he again 
held his hat at the side of the window. But this 
time there was no answering shot. He sat on the 
bunk and swung his legs restlessly. 

“Maybe they’ve gone,” he said finally. 

Servais’ teeth flashed against his dark countenance 
in a smile. “Open the door, or stick your head out 
the window an’ see,” he said. 

For answer Dane rose, walked to the door, re¬ 
moved the bar, and deliberately threw it open, step¬ 
ping quickly to one side. 

This bold move was instantly answered by hot 
lead, as a bullet whistled through the open doorway 
and plunked into the wall above the bunk. Dane 


“DON’T HURT HIM!” 193 

kicked the door shut and dropped the bar from the 
side. 

“They wasn’t shootin’ high that time,” Servais 
observed, and Dane saw that the bullet had indeed 
been on a line with his chest. 

“That came from a rifle, too,” he deliberated. 
“Maybe they mean business after all.” He scowled 
darkly, and Servais noted that his eyes were flashing 
with a steel-blue fire. 

It was the first time the little wrangler had seen 
this look in Dane’s eyes. He watched the other 
curiously, as Dane squared away from the door, his 
hand dropping like a flash to the butt of his gun. 
He remembered what old Marty had said about 
Dane—that he had the bearing and the poise of a 
gun fighter. And the face, which ordinarily had 
a youthful appearance, now was drawn into grim 
lines, the lids narrowed over gleaming eyes, as Dane 
fell a prey to his thoughts. 

“Keep your eye on the corral,” said the wrangler. 
“I’ll get a little supper.” 

The coffeepot had been kept on the stove, and 
he soon had a meal ready, drawing upon the pro¬ 
visions which were at hand. They did not eat at the 
table under the window; nor did they relax their 
vigilance on the corral where were their horses. 

The wind came on again, as darkness began to 
settle. There would be no twilight this night and 
no moon or stars, for the sky was thick with clouds. 

“They’ll be after the horses at dark, probably,” 
said Dane. “We’ve got to beat ’em to it, or stop 


194 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Servais nodded silently. He had a premonition 
that events would begin to transpire with the failing 
of the light. 

Whatever plans the rustlers had would doubtless 
soon be put in operation. Both Dane and Servais 
were restless and nervous, as the darkness descended 
swiftly. Under the lowering skies the curtain of the 
night spread quickly—a black, inky void. 

They got their saddles and bridles ready, and, 
when the darkness was complete, they removed the 
bar and opened the door stealthily, picking up their 
saddles, throwing them over their left shoulders, 
holding their guns in their right hands. 

It was a pitch-dark night—impossible to see a foot 
ahead. They crept silently around the side of the 
cabin to the corral and felt their way to the loose 
bars of the gate. Dane stood ready with his gun, 
while Servais went in and bridled the horses. He 
led them out. Dane grasped the reins of his bridle, 
for Servais had been able to tell the horses by their 
height and feel. 

They led the animals a short distance away from 
the corral, carrying their saddles, and then saddled 
rapidly. Dane stepped back, preparing to mount, 
and bumped into a man in the black shadow of the 
timber. Instantly he struck. The man staggered 
back, so that Dane could not see him. Then came 
a blinding flash almost in his face, and his hat was 
whipped from his head by a bullet. He leaped low 
and caught the man about the waist and twisted 
him about, as the gun roared again. 

“What’s up, Dane?” Servais called near at hand. 


“DON’T HURT HIM!” 195 

Dane secured the man’s arms, as they rolled over 
and over on the ground, wrenched the pistol from 
his grasp, and dealt him a blow on the head with 
its butt. From somewhere down the meadow came 
more shots, and bullets sang in his direction. 

He groped about for his horse, felt the dangling 
reins against his hand, stepped around to the left side, 
and swung into the saddle. More shots came from 
down the meadow, nearer at hand this time. Servais 
mounted and closed in beside him. 

“Into the timber on the other side,” said Dane in 
a whisper. 

They rode at a walk, their horses making prac¬ 
tically no noise on the soft turf of the clearing. 
Suddenly Dane’s horse shied, and Dane could dimly 
see the shadowy outlines of a mounted figure ahead. 
He raised his gun. 

“Who is eet?” said a voice, which he recognized 
at once. 

He pushed forward and swung in beside the horse 
ahead. 

“Marie!” he exclaimed softly in astonishment. 

“Do not make the talk,” she warned in a low, 
excited voice. “Follow me—come.” 

She turned her horse, as Servais closed in on 
the other side. 

Dane reached out and caught her reins. “Where 
do you want to take us—to the rest of the gang?” 

“I show you a trail out,” she replied. “You must 
come quick.” 

Shots broke the stillness of the night across the 
meadow. Dane looked behind and saw several 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


196 

flashes. The rustlers were firing blindly in the dark 
at the place where they thought he and Servais 
might be. 

“You see?” said the girl in a loud whisper. 
“They are know you are out an’ look for you. You 
must hurry with me.” 

“Go ahead,” said Dane; “but if we meet any one 
we’re goin’ to ask questions with our guns.” 

They rode slowly behind the girl and turned into 
the timber. They felt a hard trail under their 
horses’ feet. And, although they could not see their 
horses’ heads, because of the impenetrable darkness, 
the girl held to the trail, as it wound over ridges 
and through ravines, about soap holes and through 
patches of timber, with an uncanny instinct, aided 
no doubt by her horse’s^ familiarity with the path. 

Dane thrilled as he reflected that the girl probably 
was following the trail by which it was her custom 
to enter the bad lands. She was in league with the 
rustlers then. But he could not solve the mystery 
of why she was guiding them away from danger— 
or was it a trap? If it was a trap, however, the 
outlaws would have scant advantage over them in 
the darkness. 

They rode in utter silence, save for the sound of 
their horses on the trail and the drone of the wind 
in the trees. Dane could hear the girl’s horse ahead, 
but could not see her mount or her. Servais was 
following close behind. The echoes of the shots back 
in the clearing died away. He realized that the 
rustlers had been waiting for darkness or reenforce¬ 
ments, probably both. The man he had knocked 


'DON’T HURT HIM! 


197 


senseless, had been creeping up on the cabin. And 
the flashes of the guns in different places had shown 
there were more than the original trio. If it was a 
trap they were being led into, it had been well staged, 
although he could not see the reason nor the wisdom 
of such a course. 

They mounted a high ridge and then rode down 
a long gentle slope. At the lower end of this they 
pushed through a tangle of buckbushes and trees. 
Dane sensed there was no trail here, but his horse 
followed the one ahead. Then suddenly they came 
out upon level ground and rode rapidly ahead. The 
darkness now was not quite so dense and all- 
enveloping. He could see the shapes of the other 
two riders more and more distinctly, and for some 
distance his gaze penetrated the veil of the night. 

“Now,” said the girl, checking her horse, “you 
can go home. You are safe.” 

“But why did you bring us out?” asked Dane, 
realizing they were on the bottoms, probably near 
the strip between the Diamond IT and the Flying W. 

“I no want to see you killed, Mistair Dane,” she 
said softly. “An’ thees other mans, he ees your 
friend—no ?” 

“Do you know those men back there who were 
shooting?” Dane asked. 

“I am not to answer the questions,” said the girl 
with a pout. “I am to ask the favor—for I do 
you the favor to-night, do I not ? Those mens 
might killed you. You will do me the favor?” 

Dane knit his brows. It was true that he was 


igS 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


handicapped because they were under obligations to 
the girl. But why? 

“Those men back there are cattle thieves, Marie,” 
he said in a stern voice. “They stole a hundred head 
from the Diamond H last night, an’ they’ve stole 
other cattle before. You have done us a good turn, 
yes; but, if you aren’t in with the gang, you should 
tell us what you know.” 

She laughed softly. “Mistair Dane, you are so, 
so severe. I tell nothing till I want. There is one 
I tell you about an’ ask the favor. You must do it 
for me,” she added fiercely. 

“Who is he?” Dane asked with much curiosity. 

“He ees the ol’ man—what you call the hermit.” 

“An’ what about him?” demanded Dane in a hard 
voice. 

“ Don't hurt him!” said the girl in a passionate 
voice. “You must leave him alone!” 

“Why, that old devil is one of the worst of the 
lot,” exclaimed Dane. 

“No, no,” said the girl quickly. “He ees not. 
But you do not know. Some time you will know 
everyt’ing. I promise that. See, I give the proof!” 

She dropped a gun in Dane’s lap, put spurs to her 
horse, and was swallowed by the deep shadow. 

Dane raised the weapon with growing wonder. 
As he grasped it, he cried aloud in astonishment. 
He knew it instantly. It was his own missing gun 
which he had lost the day Williams had been shot! 


CHAPTER XXI 


ESTHER ACCUSES 

A FTER explaining to Servais and swearing him 
** to secrecy, Dane rode toward the ranch with 
his thoughts in a turmoil. He did not hear the 
little wrangler’s comments and observations. He 
struggled with the problem presented by Marie’s 
friendly offices of that night, her request that the 
hermit be not harmed and her return of his gun. 

On the face of it it was plain that she knew much. 
How had she been on hand to rescue them, or, 
rather, to enable them to get away quickly, if she 
had not known of the rustlers’ movements? Why 
did she ask that they spare the hermit, if not because 
she was aware that he was working with the cattle 
thieves? Did not the coincidence of the return of 
his lost weapon show that she knew it was his —and 
that he had lost it in some unusual way? Wasn’t 
it logical to assume that she knew what had hap¬ 
pened to him that day, and who had struck him 
down from behind? 

“Here is proof,” she had said. Proof of what? 
Proof that some time he would know everything, as 
she had said. And she had promised! Did she 
then intend to tell him all she knew? Could he trust 
her? Why was she so interested in the hermit? 
Was all this merely a ruse to quiet him, to put a 


200 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


check to his activities until the gang in the bad lands 
had had ample time to carry out their nefarious 
schemes ? 

Her strange request concerning the hermit in¬ 
trigued his interest most. Why was she so solicitous 
about him ? Could it be that the old man, who 
had exhibited unquestionable signs of insanity during 
the electric storm, when Dane had sat with him in 
the cabin, was in reality the brains of the rustler 
band? Did Marie on her night rides go to the cabin 
in the bad lands to confer with the rustlers? Dane 
confessed to himself that it looked that way. The 
girl was “playing” him, he decided with rising anger. 

He would round up the hermit and- Then he 

remembered that they had no actual evidence against 
the hermit except that he had fired at them when 
they were following the men with the herd. They 
had not seen him with any cattle, or with the other 
men. No, he would have to catch him and the others 
red-handed at their work of stealing cattle, or find 
them with the cattle they already had taken. 

Progress toward capturing the rustlers was effec¬ 
tively blocked until the stolen herd could be located, 
or till they renewed their activities. They would have 
to go on the north range for cattle now, he reflected, 
and that would not be so easy. Then he remembered 
that the Flying W still had cattle in the bottoms. 

He shrugged and gave it up for the time being. 
Anyway, he knew more than before. He knew for 
a certainty that the hermit and Marie were in some 
way associated with the gang in the bad lands. 

They had been riding along the bottoms with the 



ESTHER ACCUSES 


201 


deeper shadow of the tree growth at the edge of the 
river brakes on their right. Soon they saw the lights 
which marked the location of the ranch buildings, 
in the lee of the bluffs below the bench land. They 
made for them at a gallop. 

Old Marty listened eagerly, while Servais during 
supper recounted their adventure. Marty, however, 
was the only one in whom they confided. Dane 
announced his intention of going up on the north 
range the following day to report to Gordon Hughes. 

But this did not prove necessary, as the rancher 
came down the next morning with Fred to remain 
over Sunday. Hughes was for taking a force of 
men at once and combing the bad lands for a trace 
of the rustlers or the stolen cattle. 

“We’ll string that old hermit up, if he don’t talk,” 
he said angrily. 

Dane argued against this. He held that it would 
be wiser to let the rustlers regain their sense of 
security and resume operations, when it might be 
possible to take them by surprise. And he par¬ 
ticularly urged that the hermit be left alone. He 
was the connecting link between the rustlers and 
their deeds, he pointed out, without disclosing his 
remarkable experience with Marie. He felt that 
Hughes would not respect the girl’s request that 
the hermit be left alone, and that he would scorn 
the idea that she might be acting in good faith. 
Dane himself felt inclined to give her a chance to 
make good her promise that she would tell what she 
knew at the opportune time, although he was, never¬ 
theless, suspicious. 


202 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


In the end he prevailed upon the rancher to permit 
him to handle the matter in his own way. 

The skies cleared during the day, and once more 
the far-flung land was flooded with sunshine. Dane 
rode down the bottoms again that night, waited for 
hours in the shadows of the timber, but saw nothing 
unusual. The girl did not come. Nor did she come 
the next night or the next. 

Meanwhile during the day Dane and Servais made 
two trips into the bad lands, venturing cautiously to 
the river slope, but they saw no one and saw no 
signs of the missing cattle. 

On one occasion, when Dane crept up the ridge 
behind the hermit’s clearing, he watched until he 
was sure the cabin was deserted. 

It became a waiting game. 

One evening, as he was saddling the bay, Esther 
Hughes came to the barn. She hesitated when she 
saw him, disregarded his nod of greeting, and finally 
spoke. 

“It must be rather lonely—riding by yourself at 
night,” she said, looking at him keenly. 

“I reckon I sort of like it, ma’am.” 

“Very likely,” she said in a severe tone. “Perhaps 
you are not always— alone” 

He looked at her quickly. Then he remembered. 
She had ridden down to the cottonwood the night 
he had pursued Marie to the edge of the bad lands. 
During the strenuous events which followed he had 
forgotten the incident. She had seen him, of course. 
Perhaps she had recognized Marie and had assumed 
he had ridden down there to meet the girl. 


ESTHER ACCUSES 


203 


He laughed boyishly. “Maybe not,” he retorted, 
his eyes sparkling, as he saw the humorous side of 
the situation. Esther, then, resented what she thought 
were his clandestine meetings with the girl! 

His laugh irritated her. She flushed and spoke 
accusingly: 

“I had come to think there might be some extenu¬ 
ating reason for you being a gunman,” she said in 
superior tones: “but I hadn’t thought you were the 
kind to—to take up with a dance-hall girl!” 

It was his turn to flush. Her disgust was all too 
apparent. He resented it, and it angered him. She 
insisted upon putting herself on a higher plane, he 
thought, and she was ready to jump to any con¬ 
clusion not in his favor. He saw her, not as the 
square-minded Western girl which she should be 
because of rightful environment, but as a Western 
girl who had been spoiled by the notions of the East. 
In absorbing the viewpoint of those who did not 
know her own country, she invited merely the toler¬ 
ance of such as he, who had never lived anywhere 
else. 

“There are even dance-hall girls who are not a 
bad sort, ma’am,” he said gravely, his eyes mocking 
her. “An’ they ain’t always finding fault with some¬ 
body.” 

Esther looked up haughtily at the rebuke. “I 
should have known better than to mention it,” she 
said disdainfully. “Anyway, it’s none of my busi¬ 
ness whom you associate with, and I’m sure I’m not 
interested.” 


204 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


She walked away with her head in the air. Dane 
continued saddling, his face cold and hard. 

Next day Fred passed him with a stare. Dane 
looked after him, troubled. What was the matter 
with the boy now? He never had understood Fred; 
and this day he had seen again that mysterious look 
of antagonism and suspicion in the youth’s eyes. 
Was it because of something which his sister might 
have said to him? Or was he merely suspicious of 
Dane after the loss of the herd in the bottoms? 

From the first, Fred Hughes had been none too 
cordial, he reflected. But the cause was a mystery 
to him. He was further mystified late that after¬ 
noon. 

Esther sought him out near the bunk house before 
supper. She seemed excited, nervous, high-strung. 
She stood twisting a small handkerchief in her hands 
after she called to him. He went up to her with a 
cool, questioning look in his eyes. 

“I wish to ask you to do me a favor,” she said 
hesitatingly. “It may appear a peculiar request— 
under the circumstances, but I’m worried.” 

He waited without speaking, although he was 
seized with curiosity. 

“Fred is going in to Black Butte,” she went on, 
her voice gaining strength. 

“If father was here, I’m sure he wouldn’t want 
him to go, and mother has asked him not to. I don’t 
know what’s got into him these days. He acts so 
queer. He insists on going and won’t let me go 
with him. I’m so afraid there’ll be trouble. It’s a 
dance, and there’s bound to be Flying W men there. 


ESTHER ACCUSES 


205 


It’s dangerous for Fred to go, and I would like to be 
there to try and keep him out of trouble, some way.” 

Dane was thinking rapidly. Yes, there likely 
would be Flying W men there; perhaps Bunker 
himself. And Marie would be there of course. 

“What was you wantin’ me to do, ma’am?” he 
asked. 

“I—I—would you take me in, Mr. Dane?” 

He did not show his surprise. “It might not be 
the best thing for you to do, Miss Esther,” he said 
seriously. 

“But I want to go. I do,” she said. “If you 
won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.” 

“Very well, ma’am, I’ll take you,” he said quietly. 


CHAPTER XXII 


AT THE DANCE 

W HEN supper was over, Fred Hughes saddled his 
horse and rode away toward town. He had 
brought the little car down from the north, where 
he had been driving his father about the range, but 
the car was now under repairs. Fred saw Dane 
in the barn but did not speak to him, and Dane knew 
it would appear presumptuous on his part if he were 
to advise the boy not to go to Black Butte. 

And Dane had a thrilling feeling of anticipation, 
as he thought of the visit to town. His eyes were 
bright with excitement as he saddled Esther’s horse 
and his own. He had been warned by old Marty to 
stay away from town for a spell, but he didn’t think 
of that. One thing was sure: he wasn’t going to let 
Esther ride in alone. 

She had spunk, anyway, he thought with a grin. 
And she had asked him to accompany her. Evidently 
his supposed relations with Marie did not prevent 
Esther from looking to him for protection in a time 
of need. And she had rather condoned his supposed 
profession of gunman, while accusing him of meeting 
Marie in the bottoms. 

Still she was not asking him to ride with her for 
pleasure. Very well, he had not sought her com¬ 
pany. Let her think of him what she would. He 
was not interested in girls, anyway! 


AT THE DANCE 


207 


She had asked him to take the horses down by 
the hay shed. Did her mother know she was going 
to town ? He suspected that she didn’t, and that 
Esther wanted to get away without being seen. He 
rode down on the bay, leading Esther’s black, and 
dismounted at the shed to wait. The twilight was 
deepening into night when she finally came. 

“I waited till mother had gone to her room,” she 
said, and Dane was satisfied that Mrs. Hughes knew 
nothing of the expedition. 

They rode in silence down past the big cottonwood 
and up to the road. 

“I may be taking you into trouble,” said Esther 
finally, looking at him in genuine concern. 

“I reckon I can take care of myself, ma’am,” he 
smiled. 

Her gaze shifted quickly to the road. They went 
on toward town at an easy lope, which both horses 
could easily maintain for the twelve miles. 

“Have you ever killed a man, Mr. Dane?” Esther 
asked suddenly. 

Dane met her gaze with a dreamy, speculative 
expression. “I don’t reckon you’d want me to say 
yes to that,” he evaded. 

“But you are an expert with your weapon, are you 
not ?” 

“I was taught to be able to use it if necessary, 
ma’am.” 

“Do you like to use it?” she persisted. 

Dane frowned. “I don’t just know what you 
mean, ma’am.” 

She shrugged. “Please don’t have any trouble to- 


208 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


night,” she said. “I don’t exactly know why I asked 
you to come, but you ride every night, anyway, and 
I suppose you might as well be riding into town 
as-” She stopped in confusion. 

“Go ahead an’ say it,” Dane invited with a grin. 
“'Anyway, she’d likely be in town to-night if there’s 
goin’ to be some doings.” 

Esther’s head went up in the air. 

They rode on, with Dane chuckling to himself and 
frowning by turns. Night had fallen, and the sky 
was blossoming with stars. A coyote slipped across 
the road ahead of them and headed north. Dane’s 
gun was out in a twinkling, but he put it back. 

“Why didn’t you shoot?” asked Esther. 

“Thought your horse might be gun-shy,” he re¬ 
plied. “He seems high-strung.” 

“I don’t believe you could have hit it,” observed 
the girl. 

“Maybe not. It was a smart ways off.” He 
smiled at her. “Saturn!” he said sharply, as his 
horse stumbled. Then he held his face up to the 
cool, night wind. 

“Is that your horse’s name—Saturn?” Esther 
asked curiously. 

“That’s his name, ma’am. See him prick up his 
ears when you said it?” 

“Funny name for a horse,” she commented. “How 
did you happen to name him that?” 

“Let’s see. Saturn’s the star that’s got the rings 
aroun’ it, ain’t it, ma’am? Well, this gelding can 
run rings aroun’ most horses, an’ I guess that’s how 
he got his name.” 



AT THE DANCE 


209 


She laughed in evident amusement and delight. 
“Named for a star,” she said. “I’ve watched you 
ride at night, Mr. Dane. You evidently like the 
stars.” 

“I like the stars because they’re beautiful to me, 
ma’am,” he replied in a voice that just carried to 
her ears. “I like the prairie cactus flowers, too, 
ma’am, an’ the trees along the river, an’ the flatlands 
rolling like a carpet to the mountains. I like the 
sky, too, ma’am, an’ if we come back to earth after 
we die, as a lot of folks seem to think, I’d like to be 
an eagle an’ soar aroun’ up there an’ watch.” He 
paused, looking at her to see if she were laughing. 

But she wasn’t laughing. She was looking at him 
with astonished interest. 

“Why, you are poetical,” she said in a voice of 
surprise. 

He looked away. “Maybe I am an’ didn’t know 
it,” he observed. “There’s the lights o’ town ahead, 
ma’am.” 

She saw them glimmering faintly against the 
shadowy plain with the dark outlines of the Western 
mountains behind. Her gaze roved back to the man 
who rode beside her. He was more of a mystery 
now than ever. He had revealed a new side of his 
personality. He was a dreamer, too. Somehow he 
didn’t look at all like the sort of a man she took 
him to be. She caught herself up at this thought, 
compressing her lips, as she remembered the meeting 
she had witnessed in the bottoms. He had not 
returned next day. She hadn’t been told of the 
theft of the cattle. 


210 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Nevertheless she felt a sense of security, riding 
with him in this way in the night. Without intend¬ 
ing to do so she compared him with the men she 
had met when she was at school in the East. He 
was an accomplished rider. Yet she had seen many 
Eastern men who were excellent horsemen. He 
evidently knew how to handle cattle. Yet that 
was his business—or part of his business. She 
glanced instinctively at the gun at his side. In that 
he was different. And in his dreamy, poetical view¬ 
point of life and nature he was different. And his 
calm assurance, his quiet confidence, as beguiling as 
it was convincing, that made him different, too. 

What did he think of her, she wondered, with a 
vague thrill. 

“We better ride along to the hotel first,” he said, 
interrupting her thoughts. “I’ll find out about the 
dance—where it is, an’ one thing an’ another, after 
I’ve taken you there an’ put up the horses.” 

She readily assented. Now that she was nearly 
in town she was not just sure what she wished to 
do. Her main thought had been to be near Fred 
in event of trouble. What she would do in an 
emergency she didn’t know. Now that she had come 
she realized that she had no plans, no method of 
procedure outlined. But when Fred saw her it most 
likely would have a steadying effect upon him. 

They rode through town to the little hotel. Dane 
dismounted and held out a hand to aid her. She 
was surprised at his courtesy. They entered the 
small lobby. 

“I’ll leave you here a few minutes, ma’am, while 


AT THE DANCE 


211 


I put up the horses and find out about the dance an’ 
who’s in town,” he said, holding his hat in his hand. 
“I won’t be gone long.” 

“Thank you,” she said nervously and sought a 
chair. 

She continued to stare at the door long after he 
had left. 

What was there about this man that inspired her 
with confidence in him, despite what she thought she 
knew about him? Was she trusting him—it cer¬ 
tainly amounted to that—because he, to all appear¬ 
ances, was working for her father? She knew this 
was not the case. Why did she resent his apparent 
infatuation for the dance-hall girl? Would that not 
be natural? Would not such a girl, indeed, be of 
his kind? Why did she think of him so seriously 
at all? She flushed, even as she asked herself this 
question. She was becoming silly! 

It was nearly an hour before Dane returned. He 
appeared uneasy, removed his hat, and sat down in a 
chair near her. 

“Did you see Fred?” she asked impatiently. 

“Yes,” replied Dane, “I saw him.” He evaded 
her glance of inquiry. 

“Well, where is he?” she asked impulsively. 

“Why, he’s at the dance, ma’am,” drawled Dane. 

“Of course,” she said, compressing her lips. 
“That’s what he came to town for. Who else is 
there ?” 

“There’s quite a few there, ma’am; they came 
from all aroun’, I guess. This is the last blow-out 


212 


RIDER O' THE STARS 


before the rodeo the first week in October. They all 
seem to be turnin’ out for it.” 

“Very well, we’d better go,” she said, leaning for¬ 
ward in her chair. 

Dane seemed disturbed. He fidgeted about, cleared 
his throat. “I reckon you don’t want to go to the 
dance, ma’am,” he said finally. 

“Not go! Why not? I came here for that pur¬ 
pose.” She lifted her brows in surprise. “Why 
shouldn’t I go?” she asked sharply. 

“Well, you see, ma’am, this dance ain’t bein’ 
staged in any regular hall.” 

She made a gesture of irritation. “Tell me what 
you mean,” she said, leaning back in exasperation. 

“They’re holdin’ this dance in The Palace,” said 
Dane coolly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to go 
there or not.” 

“Why shouldn’t I go there?” she demanded. “If 
that’s where the people of this vicinity dance, it must 
be the proper thing. Do you mean that there are 
no respectable people there? I don’t hardly believe 
Fred wants to run with a questionable crowd.” 

Dane shrugged and rose to his splendid height. 
“As you say, ma’am. We might as well horn in.” 

She resented the way he put it but rose and passed 
through the door he held open for her. They 
walked in silence to The Palace. He pushed the 
swinging doors open, and they entered. 

Esther stopped with a little gasp. The Palace was 
a blaze of light and a blare of sound. Festoons of 
bunting hung from the ceiling, partly obscuring the 
lamps, so that the place was bathed in a soft light; 


AT THE DANCE 


213 


sprigs of evergreen and balsam branches were en¬ 
twined with the bunting and draped about the few 
posts. The bar was strewn with glasses and bottles, 
lined with men. The reflection of the dancers and 
moving faces gave the mirror on the wall behind the 
bar a vivid, living reality; beneath it the iridescent 
gleam of a myriad of polished glasses flaunted the 
colors of a rainbow. 

The place was packed. To the left the dancing 
floor was crowded. The orchestra played upon the 
little stage, with a large American flag draped behind 
and green branches at the foot. Solid strips of 
bunting in the national colors were stretched the 
length of the balcony above, and evergreens con¬ 
cealed the railing. 

Evidently the gaming tables had been removed 
this night from the floor in the rear, and the space 
was given up to dancing. A movement in and out 
of the rear rooms testified to the fact that gambling 
had not been tabooed entirely, however. High stakes 
would rule on an occasion like this; and stiff games 
do not seek the general public. 

The music of the orchestra was augmented by a 
queer medley of sounds which closely approached a 
din—shouts and laughter, women and girls shrilling 
greetings to each other, men renewing acquaintance 
with slaps on the back, the rhythmical movement of 
many feet, the clinking of glasses, the jingle of 
spurs, the loud voice of the man who called the dance 
numbers, the staccato of pistol shots from some 
celebrant without, and snatches of labored songs from 
roisterers at the bar. 


214 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Decidedly the crowd was an authentic representa¬ 
tion of all the people living in the surrounding 
country. Cow-punchers, with flowing scarfs in 
brilliant hues and leather chaps and high-heeled 
boots, stockmen with great hats and heavy watch 
chains against broad expanse of vests, dry-land 
farmers, in their “Sunday best,” looking distinctly 
different from the stockmen—less boisterous, too; 
pale-faced professional gamblers attired in somber 
tones; hangers-on and game “boosters” looking like 
prospectors in their affected rough dress; youth gay 
with the finery of ready-made, mail-order clothes; 
girls in fluffy white frocks, set off with pink and 
blue ribbons and sashes; matrons in sedate black 
and gray silks, with white lace collars. 

Dane made way for Esther to the left and drew 
her to a place where she could have a good view of 
the dancing floor and the spectators. 

It was not an altogether new scene to her; but 
she had been away for the better part of four years, 
and she was astonished at the progress which had 
been made since she last had attended a dance in the 
range country. The decorative scheme was better, 
more artistic. The men no longer wore their spurs 
while dancing. The youths were better dressed, and 
the girls, too. And the orchestra was playing jazz, 
while a majority of those on the floor danced modern 
steps! Truly in some ways her West had changed. 

Dane, looking up, saw Fred Hughes and Marie 
on the balcony. Esther, following vhis gaze, saw 
them, too. Her face flushed, as she saw Fred and 
the girl laughing and talking quite as very good 


AT THE DANCE 


215 


friends. Then the girl drew away from him, despite 
his apparent protests, and came down upon the floor, 
as the number ended. 

Fred remained on the balcony, looking a bit 
gloomy. Dane saw Esther was watching the girl 
narrowly and in disapproval, as she came out on 
the floor. A man stepped quickly from the throng 
of spectators and walked toward her. Dane recog¬ 
nized Bunker, with a start. 

The girl, Marie, looking very pretty in her white 
dress, stepped back from Bunker. Her eyes clouded. 

Bunker said something with a leering grin, and 
she shook her head. The Flying W foreman spoke 
again, attempted to take her by the arm, but she 
evaded him. Then Bunker’s face became dark, and 
his eyes flashed angrily. Words, which Dane could 
not hear, came quickly, and Marie raised her head 
haughtily. 

Bunker, evidently wild with rage, leaped forward 
and grasped the girl by the arm. 

There was a movement above the pair. Fred 
Hughes stripped the evergreens from a section of 
the rail, flung himself over it, hung for a moment 
above the floor, and then dropped upon Bunker’s 
head and shouders, breaking his hold upon the girl 
and sending him to the floor, with himself on top 
of him. 

Esther screamed, and there was a sudden cessation 
of the sounds within the place, as Dane leaped out 
upon the floor and in two bounds reached the 
struggling pair. 

Bunker, with his superior strength, was fast mas- 


2 l6 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


tering Fred, and he was trying to get out his gun. 
Dane bent over them, and, as Bunker whipped Fred 
beneath him with his left arm, Dane reached down 
and jerked the Flying W man’s gun from its holster, 
just as Bunker struck for it with his right hand. 

Tie cursed in surprise and, rising, flung the youth 
from him. He found himself face to face with 
Dane. His eyes narrowed to slits, and the red flame 
of uncontrollable anger darted from them. Dane 
stood holding the other’s gun in his hand. 

“This ain’t the time for a gun play, Bunker,” 
said Dane in a hard, stern voice. “There’s too many 
here that won’t stand for you shootin’ down a boy 
in cold blood. An’ I take it there’s some here that 
don’t like your style on general principles.” 

His gaze shot past Bunker’s purple face to where 
Fred Hughes was picking himself up and looking 
toward Bunker, a wild light in the boy’s eyes. The 
youth’s face was livid with a grimace of hatred. 

“Fred— don't draw!" warned Dane, as Bunker 
whirled. 

But Fred’s gun was in his hand. His eyes were 
blazing. Even Bunker was taken aback. Dane was 
momentarily powerless to move because of what he 
saw. 

Then the girl, Marie, white-faced, her eyes wide 
with fear, stepped deliberately between the boy and 
Bunker, 


CHAPTER XXIII 


STARTLING NEWS 

T^VERY one in the room stood as if rooted to 

^ the spot, many on tiptoe, staring at the queer ta¬ 
bleau. A silence, so complete and impressive that it 
almost could be felt, held the spectators breathless, 
in weird contrast to their revelry of a few moments 
before. 

Looking into the girl's eyes Fred Hughes lowered 
his gun. A wave of emotion swept over his features, 
and the weapon clattered on the floor, released by 
nerveless fingers. 

Marie smiled at him. “You are so queek with 
the anger, my Fred," she said softly in a low voice 
that nevertheless carried to those near by. 

Esther came hurriedly across the floor and, ignor¬ 
ing Marie, stepped between her and her brother. 
Fred’s face regained its color in a flush of irritation. 
He scowled at his sister, as she put her arms about 
him and urged him to leave the place and go home. 

Bunker turned on Dane with a snarl. “You’ve 
got the high hand again,” he said in a thick voice 
which trembled with rage. “You’re mighty lucky.” 

“There’s your gun,” said Dane, tossing the con¬ 
fiscated weapon to the other’s feet. 

Several men stepped forward, as Bunker stooped 
to recover his six-shooter. His gaze roved over 


2 l8 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


their faces. Sturdy types of manhood, these; rep¬ 
utable men, evidently, who would not stand for 
any dirty work or gun play, or other acts of violence, 
when their women were on the scene. 

Dane watched him like a cat as he picked up his 
weapon and thrust it into his holster. 

“One of these days I’ll run across you when you 
ain’t carry in’ a horseshoe,” he sneered, darting a 
glance at Dane from eyes glowing with hatred. 
“When you see me again you want to be ready to 
draw!” 

He turned and pushed his way through the crowd 
toward the door. 

Dane saw Esther and Fred, but Marie had dis¬ 
appeared. He made his way through the throng 
to the stairway and went up to the balcony. He 
walked to the forward end, passed behind the cur¬ 
tain there, and knocked at the door to the rooms 
occupied by Marie. He had to knock twice be¬ 
fore he got an answer. The girl opened the door 
hesitatingly, her eyes wide. 

“Come in,” she said when she saw who it was. 

“Marie, what does all this mean?” Dane asked, 
as he stepped inside. 

“Ah, Mistair Dane, you can see for yourself,” 
she said, closing the door. 

“No, I can’t see,” returned Dane sternly. “Why 
was young Fred so quick to jump on Bunker when 
he grabbed your arm ? Why does Bunker keep 
after you? Why did you step between them when 
it looked like Fred would shoot sure before I could 
stop him? You might have been killed.” 


STARTLING NEWS 


219 


“Oh, I do not want to see Mistair Fred kill any¬ 
body,” said the girl loudly. “He jump on Bunker 
because Bunker annoy me. It is you who save Fred, 
Mistair Dane. You are a big, brave mans.” 

She threw her arms about his neck suddenly and 
kissed him. Then she stepped back and laughed 
delightedly, while he stared at her in astonishment 
and perplexity. 

“Why did you do that?” he asked, vaguely aware 
that his query sounded ridiculous. 

“Because you save Mistair Fred,” she answered, 
looking down. 

“What’s Fred to you?” Dane demanded. 

“He ees ver’ good friend,” she replied, tossing her 
head. 

“Look here, Marie, you’ve got to talk,” declared 
Dane, now aroused. “Things are gettin’ too serious 
to play this guessin’ game. Where did you get my 
gun that you gave me the night you led us out of 
the bad lands?” 

“I can no tell now—I am afraid,” she said, her 
eyes avoiding his. 

“You must tell me,” he said sharply. “The man 
who got that gun, or the person who got that gun, 
is the one who shot Williams.” 

“No—no, it is not so,” cried Marie. 

“How do you know?” Dane thundered. 

She was silent, her eyes downcast. 

“You asked me not to hurt the hermit,” said 
Dane sternly. “I ain’t been near him. But I’ll find 
him, an’ I’ll make him talk, if you don’t come 
through.” 


220 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“No!” she cried, grasping his arm. “You must 
not. You must have the trust for me—you must 
have the trust. Some time I tell you everyt’ing I 
know.” She was speaking so fast it was almost im¬ 
possible for him to distinguish her words. “I do 
not know who shoot the man, Williams—I do not 
know.” 

“Where did you get the gun?” 

“I can no tell—it was by the accident. I give it to 
you to prove I am worthy of the trust.” 

“Where did you get the gun?” 

She looked about wildly, clinging to his arm. 
Then she became calm and looked fearlessly into 
his eyes. 

“From the hermit,” she said quietly. 

“Of course!” snapped Dane. “No wonder you 
asked me to handle him easy. He shot Williams an’ 
tried to put the blame on me—or on Gordon Hughes. 
He rapped me on the head, so I couldn’t see what 
was goin’ on, an’ then he took me to his cabin an’ 
kept me long enough to pull the wool over my eyes. 
An’ he’s leadin’ the rustlers in the bad lands in the 
bargain. A nice crowd you’re in with! I believe 
you’re one of ’em an’ helpin’ this scheme along. 
Don’t ask me to spare the hermit after what you’ve 
told me to-night!” 

“Oh, Mistair Dane, you no understand,” the girl 
wailed. “It is no so what you say. Listen!” She 
spoke fiercely now. “Who tell you where your gun 
come from? It ees me—I tell you. Do you think 
I tell you if the hermit shoot Williams an’ hit you? 
I tell you, an’ I take you out of them bad Ian’s 


STARTLING NEWS 221 

because I am the square. You must no hurt the— 
hermit!” 

Dane shook his head in the negative. “He’s the 
man that can clear up the shootin’ business an’ the 
cattle stealin’,” he said. “I’m workin’ for the 
Diamond H, an’ I can’t promise something I ain’t 
got the right to promise.” 

“But you must,” she cried wildly. “You are the 
beeg man. You must trust little me an’ not break 
my heart.” 

“Break your heart!” exclaimed Dane, astonished. 
“Why, what does the hermit amount to in your 
life?” 

She buried her head upon his shoulder. 

“He ees my father!” she sobbed. 

Dane stared straight ahead, disregarding the weep¬ 
ing girl. Her father. He remembered that the 
history of the old man and the girl was rather vague 
in that community. So that explained her rides to 
the bad lands! It explained why she had led them 
out by her secret trail. It was to place them under 
obligations to her so that she could ask that the 
hermit, her father, be protected. But the gun! She 
said it came from the hermit, but she denied that 
her father had done the shooting or had assaulted 
him. The hermit had said he had found him lying 
on the ground. Perhaps he had; but he had denied 
knowledge of the gun. And the fact remained that 
it looked very much as if he was operating with the 
rustlers. 

“Are you tellin’ me the truth?” Dane asked, hold- 


222 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


ing the girl off, although she clung to his arms, and 
the tears continued to fall. 

A look into her eyes, her shaken manner, con¬ 
vinced him that she had not lied to him. 

The door was flung open, and Fred Hughes came 
in. He stared from one to the other, and his face 
darkened with anger. 

“So this is it, is it?” he said to Marie. 

“Don’t be taking too much for granted,” said 
Dane scowling. 

“You!” cried Fred. “Dane, I think you’re a rat!” 

Dane’s face clouded. He thrust the girl aside. 

“I’m beginning to think what you need is a first- 
class lickin’,” he said grimly. 

“An’ I’m thinkin’ what I thought from the first,” 
retorted the boy hotly. “You’re a first-class double- 
crosser!” 

“Don’t say that again!” Dane warned him, his 
eyes narrowing. 

Fred hesitated. He was boiling mad. “Oh, bein’ 
a gunman you’ve got me stopped,” he said bitterly. 
“But guns don’t get a man everything, Dane.” His 
look was a mixture of cunning and hatred and rage. 

“It wouldn’t have got you anything if you’d 
shot Bunker,” said Dane sharply. 

“An’ I’m believing you had more’n one reason 
for buttin’ in on that play the way you did,” snapped 
Fred, darting a scornful look at Marie. Before 
Dane could reply, Esther Hughes appeared in the 
doorway. 

“Oh!” she said, arching her brows. “Is this 
some kind of a family gathering?” 


STARTLING NEWS 


223 


Fred swore under his breath. “Sis, you’re gettin’ 
so you act like you’d left your brains back East,” 
he said angrily and strode out of the room. 

Dane smiled at her queerly. She sensed she had 
interrupted a tense situation. Marie stared at her 
with wide eyes. Tears still clung to her lashes. 
Esther averted her gaze haughtily. 

“Maybe we better be goin’ home, ma’am,” Dane 
suggested in a polite voice. 

Marie approached him, touched his arm, and 
looked up at him appealingly. 

“You will remember?” she asked softly. 

For a few moments he studied her. “Yes,” he 
answered. Esther turned abruptly, and he followed 
her out. As they left, Marie dropped into a chair 
and buried her face in her hands. Dane led Esther 
through the crowd below. She breathed long breaths 
of the cool, fresh air, and then she shuddered, 
paused, and began to sway. 

Dane caught her. “Are you feelin’ bad, Miss 
Esther?” he asked with concern. 

“No,” she managed to say, closing her eyes, and 
fighting against the faintness which came with the 
reaction from her experience of the last half hour. 

She steadied finally. “I wonder if Fred has started 
for home,” she said wearily. 

“I reckon he has—or will be startin’ soon, 
ma’am,” Dane replied. “We better go along to the 
hotel, if you’re feelin’ better. You’ll likely want to 
rest a bit before we go back.” 

“Oh, it all was dreadful. I’ll rest while you’re 


224 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


getting the horses. I guess it was a good thing we 
came—that you were there, Mr. Dane.” 

He kept silent, as they walked to the hotel. He 
had many things on his mind. Marie’s revelation 
had startled him—explained many things. Fred’s 
conduct he dismissed with a frown. As for Esther, 
she was evidently sorry, but still unconvinced that 
he was acting in good faith. And he would not 
yield to the impulse to confide in her—tell her 
everything. She would have to find him out for 
herself. 

He went for the horses and learned from the man 
at the barn that Fred had got his horse and ridden 
away. He took some time to saddle and take their 
mounts around to the front of the hotel. He wished 
to give Esther an opportunity to rest. 

They rode silently homeward. Overhead were 
myriads of stars, and a silver slice of moon rode 
in the high arch of the sky. Dane was preoccupied, 
and Esther, too, seemed busy with her own thoughts. 
They passed the big cottonwood and rode across 
the bottoms. They did not stop at the shed, but 
went on to the porch. Dane assisted her to dis¬ 
mount. She stood for a moment with the light of 
the moon on her face. 

“1 want to thank you,” she said in a low, trembling 
voice. “And there’s so much—I don’t understand.” 

Her hand touched his sleeve, and she went hur¬ 
riedly into the house. 

For a brief interval Dane stood looking up at the 
star-filled night, his hat in his hands. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


TWO WOMEN 

IF Dane was puzzled, worried, undecided concerning 
* the turn events had taken—uncertain as to what 
his next move should be, he was not in a more 
trying quandary than Esther Hughes. 

The girl was not only perplexed, she was the 
victim of an insatiable curiosity. She didn’t know 
what to think about Dane, and it aggravated her 
exceedingly to find herself wondering if she hadn’t 
misjudged him. She was annoyed at him because 
he was so much of a mystery, yet she admired him 
for his quick action at the dance and confessed to 
herself that he had given her glimpses of a most 
interesting personality. 

However, she had heard that dangerous charac¬ 
ters in the West were often agreeable persons, even 
educated, and that the most dangerous were the 
ones who were slow to anger and slower still to 
resort to their weapons. But once they “went for 
their guns,” the saying was that it “meant a 
funeral.” 

Dane could be a gentleman, apparently. Yet she 
had seen the look in his eyes, as he watched Bunker 
pick up the gun which had been thrown at his feet; 
and she realized with a shudder that the look had 
meant death for Bunker, if the Flying W foreman 
had then tried to use his weapon. She could not 


226 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


forget that look. She could not forget the scene 
in Marie’s room. She could not forget that the 
dance-hall girl had asked him if he “would remem¬ 
ber,” and he had answered “yes.” 

And Fred! Why had he become so angry when 
she appeared. Her remark upon entering the room? 
She had meant nothing by it. Anyway, Fred had 
been acting strangely, and she condoned his impulsive 
speech as due to the exciting experience he had just 
gone through. But her lips tightened, as she recalled 
his presence on the balcony with the dance-hall girl 
before she had been accosted on the floor by Bunker. 
And Fred had undeniably acted as he had because 
of her. Marie could tell her much if she so desired, 
Esther concluded. At any event she might be able 
to tell her something about Dane. 

Esther kept thinking of this all the day following 
their return from the dance. And in the late after¬ 
noon she saddled her horse and rode up on the bench 
land. Striking westward she rode until she passed 
the cottonwood tree in the center of the strip. There 
she sat her horse for some time, unaware that Dane 
was watching her from a ridge at the edge of the 
bad lands, where he had happened in the course of 
a fresh search for Marie’s secret trail to the hermit’s 
cabin. Finally, after turning back toward the ranch, 
she changed her mind and rode into the sunset on 
the road to town. 

Dane rode out of the brakes and up to the road 
above the cottonwood, looking after her with a 
worried and puzzled expression. 

Esther didn’t ride fast. She wished to collect her 


TWO WOMEN 


227 


thoughts. She wished to know thoroughly the pur¬ 
pose of her errand before she arrived in town this 
time. The twilight was spreading over the land, as 
she came close to Black Butte. She rode into the 
trees along the creek, dismounted and waited for 
dark. She wasn’t exactly sure why it was she didn’t 
wish to be observed, but she responded to some 
inner sense of caution. And she carefully planned 
her moves. She was glad no one had seen her leave 
the ranch, as she thought. 

When darkness had descended she skirted the tree 
growth along the little creek to the point where it 
was nearest the eastern end of the town’s short main 
street. Here she tied her horse and then proceeded 
on foot. She hesitated near the front entrance of 
The Palace and wondered wildly if there wasn’t a 
way she could enter from the rear. The deep shadow 
behind the building, however, discouraged her, and, 
using all her will power, she entered through the 
swinging doors. 

The decorations of the night before remained, but 
the crowd was gone. The place was all but deserted. 
As she looked around she saw a few men at the 
gaming tables, which had been reinstated in the rear 
of the big room, and a few others at the bar. Marie 
was not in sight. 

Summoning her courage she walked rapidly to 
the stairway leading to the balcony and went up. 
She hurried along the balcony to the curtain and 
rapped on the door to the room where she had fol¬ 
lowed her brother the night before. The door 
opened, and the dance-hall girl stood before her. 


228 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“What do you want?’’ asked Marie in a tone far 
from cordial. 

Esther bristled. Why should this girl feel an¬ 
tagonistic toward her ? She held back the sharp 
retort which was on her tongue and pushed her way 
into the room. 

“I want to talk with you a minute,” she explained 
with a forced smile. 

The girl confronted her, leaving the door open. 

“What ees it?” she asked. Her eyes were wells 
of resentful light. Yet there was suspicion and 
curiosity in her gaze, too. And Esther divined that 
the girl was all too conscious of the difference in 
their positions. 

She decided to take advantage of this. 

“What was Mr. Dane telling you that made you 
cry last night?” she asked with another attempt to 
smile. She hadn’t meant to put this question first, 
she realized, biting her lip; it had slipped out. 

Marie laughed in delight. “You ask me? I tell 
you I cry because of what I tell him. Why don’t 
you ask Mistair Dane?” 

Esther couldn’t conceal her irritation nor her 
eagerness. “It is only right you should tell me what 
—what all this is about,” she said with a note of 
pleading in her voice. 

“Ah, an’ so you want to know. You like Mistair 
Dane, maybe—like him ver’ much?” 

Esther’s face flamed. “That isn’t the question,” 
she flared. “And it’s ridiculous. Maybe you will 
tell me this: Why did my own brother attack that 


TWO WOMEN 


229 


man Bunker because he was trying to—to dance 
with you, I suppose?” 

“Oh,” exclaimed Marie, “you are Mistair Fred’s 
sister? How shall I know?” 

Esther frowned at this. “I am telling you the 
truth,” she said severely. “Why should my brother 
be so anxious to protect you?” 

“He is the gallant,” chirped Marie. “You would 
not want him to be so?” 

“My dear girl, I am not finding fault with my 
brother,” said Esther, changing her tactics. “But 
it is plain you have some sort of influence over him 
and Mr. Dane who is working on our ranch. I 
came here thinking perhaps you could tell me some¬ 
thing of Mr. Dane—who he is, and where he comes 
from. Perhaps he has told you more. than he has 
me. He seems to like you.” 

“A ver’ fine man,” said Marie, nodding her head 
several times. “Ver’ brave. He knock that Bunker 
down the stairs an’ shoot ver’ fast.” 

“So I understand,” remarked Esther dryly. “Why 
did he knock Bunker down the stairs?” 

“He try to be mean with me,” answered Marie. 

“I see,” said Esther, raising her brows. “The 
main function of the men from our place seems to 
be to protect you.” 

Marie’s eyes sparkled. “You are angry because 
so ?” 

“I have seen you meet Mr. Dane in the bottoms 
near the bad lands,” Esther accused. 

“You are a spy,” flashed Marie with a fierce look. 
“An’ he never meet me there, except one night when 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


230 

he catch me on the road an’ ask me where I’ve 
been.” 

“I saw you ride down from the road to the shadow 
of the trees and saw him ride after you, and both 
of you disappeared,” said Esther. 

“Ah, but yes. It was so, that night. He look to 
see where I have gone, but he no find me.” 

“Then where did you go?” asked Esther skepti¬ 
cally. 

“That I no tell,” said Marie firmly. “Mistair 
Dane, he know.” 

“I thought so,” said Esther coldly. 

Marie frowned at her, and Esther immediately 
jumped to the conclusion that the girl was angry 
at her because she thought she was interested in 
Dane. She flushed again under the girl’s gaze. 

“You are think something ees wrong?” asked 
Marie with a coolness which was disconcerting. “If 
you want to know something about your man you 
go to him an’ not to be asking other peoples. You 
can tell by the eyes if the man he ees all right!” 

Esther’s face was flaming. 

“You have no right to talk to me like that,” she 
began, but her words froze, as she heard a step on 
the balcony. 

Then Dane appeared in the doorway. 

Both girls stared at him—Marie with bright eyes, 
seemingly glad that he had come; Esther, discon¬ 
certed at first, then loftily, as it occurred to her 
that he was paying another visit to the dance-hall 
girl. 

“I am glad you are come,” said Marie. “She 


TWO WOMEN 


231 

ask about you.” She favored Esther with a side 
glance full of devilment. 

Esther’s gaze fell before Dane’s questioning look. 
Then she tossed her head arrogantly. 

'‘Don’t let me interfere with your visit,” she said, 
moving toward the door. 

“I came here to get you,” said Dane evenly. 

“Yes? How interesting. And how did you know 
I was here?” 

“I saw you ride toward town. When you didn’t 
come back by nightfall I decided you had come on 
into town. I followed you an’ found you where I 
reckoned you’d be.” 

“I do not like the idea of you spying on my 
movements,” said Esther, assuming a haughty atti¬ 
tude to conceal her confusion. “I will go now.” 

Dane stepped aside, and, as Esther passed him, 
Marie touched him on the arm. 

“Mistair Fred—he ees mad with me?” she asked, 
her eyes glowing. 

“He’s peeved about something,” Dane grinned. 

“It ees because you are here when he come last 
night,” she said in a bubbling voice. 

Dane was about to say something, but he saw 
Esther hurrying down the balcony stairs, and he 
hastened after her and overtook her outside the 
front entrance. 

She turned on him. “You needn’t accompany 
me,” she said. 

“All the same I’m sure goin’ along, ma’am,” he 
replied cheerfully. “My horse is tied over in the 
trees by yours.” 


232 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

“You had no right to follow me,” she flared. 

“It ain’t wise for you to be ridin’ aroun’ these 
prairies at night alone, ma’am,” he said in an earnest 
voice. 

“How about that dance-hall girl’s night riding?” 
she asked, and then was sorry for it at once. 

“A different matter,” responded Dane, frowning. 

“Quite naturally,” said Esther coldly. Yet she 
pondered over the girl’s denial that she had ridden 
to the bad lands to meet Dane. It was all so 
baffling. And she resented Dane’s cool assertiveness, 
his domineering protection of her. 

“I’ll ride home alone,” she told him when they 
reached the horses. 

For reply he untied her horse and stood by while 
she mounted. She dug in her spurs, and the black 
raced toward the road. 

In a few moments Dane was at her side. She 
spurred the black to his utmost, but couldn’t shake 
Dane’s bay. She gave it up and slowed to a 
swinging lope. 

Dane’s laugh sounded musically on her ears. She 
looked at him and saw he was smiling at her. 

“Did Marie tell you what you wanted to know?” 
he inquired, his eyes sparkling. 

She recalled the dance-hall girl’s declaration that 
“you can tell by the eyes” if the man is all right. 
She looked away quickly and checked her mount to 
a walk. 

“I think you are the one who should tell me,” she 
said. 


TWO WOMEN 


233 


“Maybe some day I will, Miss Esther,” he said 
softly, leaning toward her. 

She could think of no answer to this. More¬ 
over she felt a mysterious glow—a thrill—within 
her. Was it the quality of his tone, his words, the 
look in his eyes—the presence of him? 

She upbraided herself mentally for her interest 
in him, an unknown. Perhaps an outlaw; more 
than likely an adventurer of the plains. Yet her 
very reasoning thus was an antithesis, and she found 
herself regarding him surreptitiously. 

Perhaps the dance-hall girl was wiser than she 
knew! She pulled up her horse at the big cotton¬ 
wood. “Mr. Dane,” she said earnestly, “why do 
you persist in remaining such a mystery?” 

He looked straight into her eyes. 

“All the things aroun’ us are a mystery, Miss 
Esther,” he said whimsically. “The stars, the shad¬ 
ows that drift on these plains, this fine, big cotton¬ 
wood tree, the mountains at our backs. We don’t 
ask where they come from; we take ’em as they 
are. I reckon Pm a part of it. As long as we don’t 
know all about the stars, or the trees, or the moun¬ 
tains, we'll keep wonderin’ about ’em. If I was to 
tell you all about myself you’d quit wonderin’ about 
me. An’ I reckon I don’t exactly want that, ma’am.” 

Esther drove in her spurs. She gave him her 
reins with a murmured “Good night,” when they 
reached the porch of the ranch house. 

Then she sat for an hour at her darkened window, 
thinking of his reply. And in time she came partly 
to understand it. 


CHAPTER XXV 


ON THE NORTH RANGE 

F OR a whole week Dane kept strict watch through¬ 
out the day and part of the night on the bad 
lands. On two different days he maintained a vigil 
on the ridge above the hermit’s cabin from early 
in the morning until midnight. But in all this time 
he saw no one in the tumbled country along the 
river except the hermit himself, who was living in 
his cabin as if nothing ever had happened, leaving 
it only for short intervals, when he disappeared in 
the direction of the river. Marie did not visit him 
on one of her night rides during this time, so far 
as Dane knew. 

Dane was tempted more than once to visit the 
hermit to try to cajole or threaten him into telling 
what he knew about the rustling operations and the 
shooting of Williams, but the astonishing confession 
of Marie, that the hermit was her father, deterred 
him. Also he had implicit faith in his belief that 
the rustlers would again show their hand. 

August now was well along. The green of the 
prairies had long since changed to gold. Gordon 
Hughes came down with a crew of men and put 
them to cutting the hay. When he was ready to 
return to the north range Dane announced that he 
wanted to go with him. 


ON THE NORTH RANGE 


235 


“I’m not gettin’ anywhere here,” he explained; 
“an’ when the cattle thieves start workin’ again 
they’ll have to go where the stock is—up north.” 

Hughes readily assented. He was short of men, 
owing to the loss of those who had to put up the 
hay. When he left for the north range in the morn¬ 
ing Dane rode with him. He asked for night duty, 
and Hughes agreed to this, also. 

Dane soon was in excellent standing with the 
men. He found to his surprise that he had some¬ 
thing of a reputation among them. Old Marty had 
spread the story of his encounters with Bunker in 
town and had aired his opinion as to what he thought 
about Dane’s skill with his gun. Many of them 
called him Lightning to his face, and he merely 
smiled. 

And he soon demonstrated that he was an ex¬ 
perienced cow-puncher. While branding the fall 
calves he exhibited his skill with the rope, time and 
time again. Cow-punchers have specialties as well 
as men of other vocations. Dane’s specialty won him 
the instant respect of every other roper with the 
outfit. 

Not only did he stand his hours of guard at night, 
but he also helped with the work throughout the 
day. He never got more than four and a half 
hours of sleep. He was prepared to take on any 
extra task, or to do any one a favor. The only 
thing he refused to do was talk, except for a friendly 
greeting, or a discourse connected with the work 
at hand. He sat by the fire, silent, moody, and 


236 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


almost forlorn, yet he heard everything that was 
said. 

There was only one man with the outfit who paid 
him scant attention and purposely avoided him. 
That was Fred Hughes. The youth hadn’t spoken 
to him since the night in Black Butte when he might 
have been killed, had it not been for Dane’s quick 
action. 

Dane pretended not to notice this singular situation. 
Yet, as time passed, he thought he saw a change 
in Gordon Hughes, also. The rancher did not 
appear quite so cordial, and Dane caught him looking 
at him several times in a peculiar way—half sus¬ 
picious, half puzzled. Then one night it all came 
out. 

It was a cool night in September, with a chilling 
wind sweeping down from the north. Clouds were 
scuttling across the sky, and there were indications 
of a storm. The cattle were uneasy, and Dane was 
singing. Fred was riding herd with him this night. 

As they came in after midnight, Dane continued 
to sing softly, ignoring the boy who was riding 
close behind him. 

Fred suddenly spurred his horse to Dane’s side. 

“You seem mighty cheerful,” he said sarcastically. 
“Guess you ain’t worry in’ if we get the stock 
shipped or not.” 

Dane ceased singing and looked at him. 

“Worryin’ won’t get ’em shipped any quicker,” 
he observed wisely. 

“No, an’ there’s lots of other things that mightn’t 
get ’em shipped,” said Fred. “We might lose ’em.” 


ON THE NORTH RANGE 


237 

“That ain’t likely with the bunch of men we’ve 
got,” said Dane. 

“Well, we lost one bunch out of the back yard,” 
said Fred pointedly. “An’ it was funny you couldn’t 
find ’em when you was right on their heels.” 

Dane considered. “Your father told you about it, 
I suppose,” he remarked dryly. 

“Yes, an’ I’ll bet if Fd been aroun’ there they 
wouldn’t have got ’em across the river.” 

“They didn’t get ’em across the river —that night 
or day,” said Dane with a dark scowl. 

“Maybe not, but all we’ve got is your word for it.” 

“You forgettin’ that Servais was along?” asked 
Dane sharply. 

“No, but he ain’t so bright. He could be fooled— 
fooled as easy as some women I know. Like Marie, 
for instance.” 

Dane was thoroughly angry. “Fred, you’re not 
talkin’ sense. I know what you’re gettin’ at. You’re 
tryin’ to say you think I had something to do with 
the runnin’ off of that herd of a hundred head. 
An’ you’re hintin’ that I’m hangin’ aroun’ Marie. 
You can think what you want about the herd, an’ 
the other ain’t none of your business!” 

Fred’s eyes flashed with anger, as his hand dropped 
to the butt of his gun. Then he stared with awed 
fascination into the black bore of Dane’s weapon. 
He hadn’t even seen the draw! 

“An’ you ain’t got no business carryin’ a gun,” 
said Dane in a taunting voice, as they rode down 
to the wagon. 

Nevertheless Fred’s insinuations bothered Dane. 


238 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


That explained the changed attitude of Gordon 
Hughes. Fred had been telling him his suspicions. 
And Dane was compelled to confess to himself that 
it did look none too good for him. The cattle had 
disappeared from under his very eyes, almost. And 
Fred was undoubtedly jealous of the fact that Dane 
had aided Marie on two occasions. Why this should 
be he couldn’t reason out. He wondered if Fred 
knew that the hermit was Marie’s father. He was 
convinced none of the others on the Diamond H 
knew it. 

The beef round-up was now on in earnest, with 
shipping day coming apace. Gordon Hughes was 
pushing the work as rapidly as possible. He had 
to ship by the first week in October to be sure of 
having the money to meet his paper at the bank. He 
knew he could not renew again with the boundary 
unsettled; he doubted if he could renew if the line 
were established. He had not attempted to fence it, 
as Williams was only just beginning to be about 
again. He didn’t wish to make the Flying W owner 
think he had taken advantage of him while he was 
recovering from his wound. And he had had much 
to do. Now the haying was over, and he had all 
his men. When the beeves were rounded up he 
ordered Shay and a number of the men to remain 
with the other cattle. The balance of his force, 
including Dane and Fred, he selected to drive the 
beef herd to the shipping point, forty miles north¬ 
west. 

On the first of October he announced they would 
start with the beef herd next day. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE ATTACK 

IT was a cool, bracing, typical autumn morning 
when they started with the beef herd. The cattle 
were in prime condition. The four-year-old short¬ 
horns were especially good stock, larger than any 
of the Here fords and range breeds. While taking 
longer to mature, this breed, originally from the 
north of England, will average a larger beef, and 
Gordon Hughes realized that, since he had had to 
feed all his stock during two terrible winters, he 
had been fortunate in having the shorthorns after 
all. They would certainly command top price in 
the Chicago market and, with the other beeves, 
would bring more than the amount he needed to 
clear the pressing debt of the Diamond H and pay 
off his men. 

There were six cow-punchers besides Hughes, 
Fred, and Dane, looking after the fifteen hundred 
head in the herd. The cook drove the light chuck 
wagon. They moved slowly, as Hughes did not wish 
to lose any more weight than was absolutely un¬ 
avoidable. He had to bring his cattle to the market 
in excellent condition, and he had an enviable rec¬ 
ord with the buyers for so doing. He figured on 
three days to Highline, the shipping point. The 
cars had been ordered, and he had been notified 


240 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


they were waiting in the railway yards. He and 
Fred and four of the punchers were going East 

with the cattle. Allowing three days to Chicago, 

he expected to have his stock sold by October tenth 

at latest, which would give him four days and a 

half in which to return and settle his business with 
the American Bank in Black Butte—two days more 
than absolutely required. This, of course, provid¬ 
ing Stevens, the banker, had not instructed that a 
draft be sent direct to him. In such event there 
would be plenty of time for the matter to be settled 
through the mails. 

But time in this instance was indeed the “essence 
of the contract.” 

“Now don’t try to trail ’em,” said Hughes to his 
men, although this warning was hardly necessary. 
“Let ’em graze along. They won’t lose any weight 
that way, an’ some of ’em might pick up some. 
We’ll hit water again to-night on the upper Muddy.” 

The herd was off the bedding ground shortly 
after dawn. Dane evaded both Fred and his father 
as much as possible. He would rather have stayed 
with Shay and the men looking after the other cat¬ 
tle in the north, as he believed the rustlers would 
strike there if they knew the beeves were being 
moved, and Gordon Hughes was gone; but the at¬ 
titude of Fred had left him loath to ask for any 
special assignment from Hughes. 

They proceeded slowly, the cattle grazing along, 
the men holding them in the direction they wanted 
them to go, but they made twelve miles that day and 
bedded down two miles beyond the upper Muddy 


THE ATTACK 


241 


Creek. Hughes was in charge and designated two 
of the punchers for the eight-to-ten night watch, 
Dane and another puncher for the ten-to-twelve 
watch, Fred and a puncher for the twelve-two 
watch, and two other punchers for the two-to-four 
watch. Breakfast would be ready at four in the 
morning. 

Fetching their beds from the chuck wagon the 
men put them on the ground about the fire. Each 
man had two horses, and these were run in with 
the herd, making a wrangler unnecessary. The four 
horses for the chuck wagon were also put in with 
the herd at night. 

Dane sat near the fire on his blankets, scowling 
into the blaze. He did not like the idea of being 
off the ranch; he was resentful of Fred’s, veiled ac¬ 
cusation, of Gordon Hughes for evidently listening 
to Fred’s charges, and he was irritated because 
Marie hadn’t seen fit to tell him more than she had, 
and because he had been, as he thought, too lenient 
with her father, the hermit. He speculated, too, on 
what might happen while they were with the beef 
herd, and while Hughes was in Chicago. He would 
have to appear at the fall term of court, too, on the 
charge of having shot Williams. Could he clear up 
the mystery of that affair before he was called to 
court? Would Marie help him to do so? Or, after 
all, was the whole business a part of a scheme to 
get him out of the way and injure Gordon Hughes? 

He went on guard at ten o’clock in a troubled 
frame of mind. When he came off at midnight he 
rode slowly under the stars for some time. It was 


242 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

half past two in the morning before he turned in 
for an hour or so of sleep. 

They were a little late getting off the bedding 
ground that morning, but the cattle moved a little 
faster this day of their own accord. The short¬ 
horns kept in the lead, with the white-faces showing 
an inclination to range farther out. They watered 
at some springs early in the afternoon and bedded 
down that night, thirteen and a half miles for the 
day, making twenty-five and a half miles on their 
way, with fourteen and a half miles yet to go. 

“We’ll have to make it to-morrow,” said Hughes 
cheerfully. “An’ we’re lucky we’ve got the weather 
with us.” 

Dane talked quite a bit that night with a cow- 
puncher, named “Buck” Colter, who stood guard 
with him. When he went off at twelve o’clock, 
turning the guard over to Fred Hughes and another, 
he again rode out under the stars. The prairie here 
was more broken than to eastward. There were 
many small rises of ground and occasional coulees, 
where grew a few cottonwoods. They were nearing 
another creek in the north, where they would water 
in the morning. 

As Dane rode along a gentle rise, his attention 
became fixed on a point north of the bedding ground 
of the cattle. He was some little distance west of 
the herd. He thought he saw a moving shadow near 
some miniature ridges on the north horizon. The 
moon had gone behind the mountains in the west at 
midnight, and the light of the stars was partly 


THE ATTACK 243 

obscured by fleecy veils of cloud which were drifting 
in the night sky. 

As he looked he made sure of the shadow, and 
then he saw others. In another moment he realized 
the significance of the shadows, when he saw them 
come racing down toward the cattle. There were 
nearly a score of them—riders bearing down upon 
the herd! 

He gave the bay the spurs and dashed back to¬ 
ward camp. Shots now came riding on the wind 
from the riders nearing the cattle. The men had been 
closer to the bedding ground than he had thought. 
A shower of shots greeted his ears, and there were 
wild yells and shouts. He could no longer see 
the mysterious riders. He pushed the bay gelding to 
his utmost. The shots and yells continued. He 
could see flashes against the dark shadow of the 
herd. The riders were among the cattle. And now 
the big shadow at the bedding ground began to 
move. The herd was on the run! 

Dane circled to the left and saw other riders 
coming toward him. In the dim starlight filtering 
through the screen of clouds it was difficult to tell 
friend from foe. And the cattle were stampeding 
south. 

Instantly Dane realized it was the work of the 
rustlers. They were stampeding the beeves off their 
course, knowing it would mean a decided loss of 
weight and a big loss of time to rest them and put 
them back in condition. In half an hour of running, 
Hughes' chance of marketing the cattle by the 
fifteenth of the month would be gone. And it 


244 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


might be the rustlers had planned to split up the 
herd and run off a portion of it. 

It was a bold undertaking. The rustlers meant 
business. 

Fifteen hundred head of cattle were now on the 
dead run. Dane could hear Gordon Hughes roaring 
orders somewhere ahead of him. To the right of 
the stampeding herd he saw several riders firing 
their guns. Hughes’ voice was drowned by the 
bellowing of the steers. He now was behind the 
herd. The riders who had been making toward him 
veered off to the north. Dane emptied his six- 
shooter at them without result, and they disappeared 
in the all-enveloping darkness. 

He swung away to the right, where he could 
barely make out the forms of horsemen riding in 
close to the herd, frightening and maddening the 
cattle by shouting and firing their weapons. All of 
the rustlers must have gotten out of the herd by this 
time, he reasoned, reloading his gun. He raked the 
bay with his steel, as he rode down upon the riders 
ahead. Bullets whistled in his direction, and he 
swung in close to the cattle. The men ahead drew 
away, and he lost sight of them in the shadows about 
the forerunners of the herd. When he again caught 
sight of them he saw there were six of them. 
Again the bullets sang close to him. A steer to the 
left of him staggered and went down, several others 
piled upon the fallen animal. Dane turned out so that 
the bullets fired at him would not do further damage 
to the herd. He checked his pace. The odds were 


THE ATTACK 


245 

too great for him to attempt to rout the six rustlers 
ahead. 

A rider bore down upon him from behind. He 
recognized Fred Hughes in the saddle. The boy 
was riding like mad, his gun held high. Dane yelled 
to Fred, as the latter drew near him. 

“There’s six of ’em down there,’’ he called. 

“An’ you make seven,” shouted the youth. 

Dane whirled his horse in close to Fred’s mount, 
causing it to rear and come to a sudden stop. 

“Take your time about goin’ down there,” said 
Dane savagely; “unless you want to stop a few 
bullets. Don’t you think those fellows can shoot?” 

Fred’s face was livid. His right hand came up 
with his gun. Dane’s weapon streaked fire, and 
Fred clasped his right wrist, as his gun went spinning. 

“You’re in with ’em,” he screamed, his eyes 
blazing. “I saw you come from the west when they 
came down on us. You’re tryin’ to steal the herd!” 

They were well behind the cattle which had passed 
on. Dane was about to give the youth a caustic 
reply and ride on, when three horsemen came plung¬ 
ing out of the shadows behind them, shooting. 

Three shots came from Dane’s gun almost simul¬ 
taneously. One of the oncoming riders toppled 
from his saddle, and the other two separated to either 
side. Dane shouted to Fred to ride, as he spurred 
his horse and struck southward, firing at the man 
off to his left. The boy rode at his right. 

Dane hastily reloaded. They were leaving their 
pursuers rapidly behind, for both were mounted on 
fast horses. They heard shots, but the menacing 


246 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


whine of the bullets did not come. They were out 
of range for accurate shooting. Fred was fumbling 
with the buckled strap of a second holster on his 
left side. Finally the gun came away, and he twisted 
in his saddle for a shot at the riders behind. But 
they were lost in the shadow. He looked at Dane 
queerly and saw that Dane was looking grimly ahead. 

They caught up with the cattle, and a moment later 
a rider loomed out of the shadows to the left. Dane 
waited for the spurt of flame which he expected 
to see. It didn’t come. Evidently the other rider also 
was in doubt as to whether they were friends or foes. 
Then Dane recognized Buck Colter, who had stood 
guard with him. He looked about at Fred and 
saw the gun in the boy’s hand for the first time. 
Fred evaded his glance, and Dane smiled. 

“Come along,” he shouted to Colter, and the three 
of them dashed down the right of the running 
herd. 

The cattle began to straggle out and to slow their 
speed. Dane, in the lead, could see nothing of the 
six riders. He could tell by the movement of the 
cattle in front and off to the left that the herd had 
indeed split. And it was slowly, but surely coming 
to a stop. 

However, the damage had been done. The effects 
of the stampede would be noticeable with the coming 
of daylight. The cattle would be nervous and restless, 
reduced in weight. It would take several days to 
bring them back into condition. Gordon Hughes 
would again be at the mercy of the banker, Stevens. 
They rode around the front of the herd, singing. 


THE ATTACK 


247 


The cattle had ceased to run. They saw another 
bunch off to the east. The herd had been broken 
up into sections. It was not improbable that the 
rustlers had made off with some of the beeves. 

“Where’s your father?” Dane called to Fred 
Hughes, although he realized, even as he put the 
question, that the boy hardly could be expected to 
know. 

“He was over on the other side of the herd, I 
guess,” said the boy. “The men likely was all 
asleep when things began to happen.” 

Dane sensed a subtle note of apology in the 
youth’s tone. Buck Colter was swearing. Then 
Dane saw several shadowy forms cutting south 
from a point below the milling herd in the east. 
He pointed, put the spurs to his horse, and galloped 
in pursuit. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE WORTH OF A ROPE 

D ANE rode as fast as the bay could carry him. 

The cool wind whipped in his face, and the 
shadowy surface of the plain flowed under him. 
His horse had not been ridden the day before, as 
he had made a practice of reserving the bay for 
guard duty, anticipating, as he now realized, an emer¬ 
gency in the night. 

However, it soon became apparent that the riders 
he was pursuing were mounted on excellent horses. 
They maintained their lead, and Dane soon was 
compelled to slow down the bay. He looked behind 
and saw Fred and Colter following him in the dis¬ 
tance. The men ahead were riding at a swinging 
lope, heading southeast. They evidently were making 
for the refuge of the bad lands. 

Dane rapidly figured the approximate distance. 
They had taken the beef herd some twenty-five miles 
from the north range above the Diamond H. How¬ 
ever they had been heading northwest, and therefore 
they were not that distance directly west of their 
starting point, but were about twenty miles west and 
some few miles north when the attack had been 
made upon the herd. The cattle had been driven 
two miles or more south, and he had ridden another 
two miles. He estimated that he was about twenty 


THE WORTH OF A ROPE 


249 


miles from the bad lands. The men he was pursuing 
were about a mile and a half ahead of him. 

In the northeast he could see another dark blotch 
upon the plain, which he assumed was a portion 
of the scattered herd. Once he thought he heard 
shots in that direction. Perhaps Gordon Hughes 
and the others were having a clash with some of 
the rustlers there. He reflected that there had been 
enough of the rustlers to keep Hughes and the men 
with him at the rear of the herd on the left side, just 
as he had been stopped on the right. 

That the rustlers had not attacked the Diamond H 
men first indicated that their purpose had been 
primarily to stampede the herd. After that they 
probably expected they would have a chance to get 
away with a hundred head or so, which would not 
be noticed until the cattle had been counted some 
time the next day. That they might be able to do 
this in the confusion and the darkness, Dane well 
knew. 

Fred Hughes and Colter caught up with him, 
and the three of them rode on the trail of the men 
ahead. They could make out four riders and knew 
that they, too, had been observed. But the fugitives 
undoubtedly had confidence in the ability of their 
horses to get them well into the bad lands in advance 
of their pursuers. They kept their steady gait, 
which was a fast one, but one that could be main¬ 
tained by the horses to the edge of the brakes. 

With the first pale glimmer of dawn in the east the 
band of color made by the autumn foliage of the 
trees in the bad lands could be seen in the south. 


250 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


The men ahead increased their pace. They could 
be seen plainly now, as they topped the rises of 
the plain, but Dane or the two with him could not 
recognize any of them. 

‘‘We’ve got to try an’ catch ’em before they 
get into the brakes,” said Dane. But, even as he 
said it, he doubted that they would be able to do 
this. He wondered vaguely about the others in the 
band; bethought himself too late that it might have 
been better if they had ridden east on the lookout 
for the main body of rustlers. 

He spoke to the bay and urged him with the 
spurs. The horse dashed ahead in a last gallant 
spurt which soon left Fred and Colter behind. Dane 
made a considerable gain before the quartet realized 
what he was up to. 

Then began a race for the edge of the bad lands, 
with all seven riders pushing their horses to their 
last bit of speed and endurance. Puffs of smoke 
came from the men ahead, but their bullets fell 
harmlessly out of range. Dane continued to gain and 
realized with exultation that the horses of the four 
ahead were nearly spent. They had been ridden some 
distance before the attack on the herd. 

Although the odds were in favor of the fugitives, 
any cessation of speed on their part to engage in a 
fight would give Fred and Colter a chance to come 
up and get into it. The odds thus would be greatly 
lessened. 

Gradually three of the rustlers drew away from 
a fourth, whose horse was fast playing out. Dane 
could see them gesticulating to him, and he was 


THE WORTH OF A ROPE 


251 


wielding a quirt cruelly. Possibly the others thought 
he would be able to make it into the brakes, or 
were not minded to stay by him, for they con¬ 
tinued on. 

The first tumbled ridges of the bad lands now 
were less than a mile away. The three men in the 
lead swerved to the right and rode toward the 
fringe of trees on the Flying W side of the strip. 
The fourth man, however, made straight for the 
nearest point, which was almost directly below the 
big cottonwood tree. 

Dane flung out an arm, pointing toward the trio off 
to the right in the hope that Fred and Colter would 
see the signal and pursue the trio. He urged the 
bay after the lone rider ahead. He shot twice, 
as the man made the edge of the brakes and a mo¬ 
ment after dashed in behind him. They were on 
the trail which he had traversed several times before 
—the trail over which the stolen herd had been 
taken, and where he and Servais had pursued the 
stallion. 

He could see his man through the low-hanging 
branches ahead. The reports of a gun broke sharply 
on the still, morning air, and bullets clipped the 
leaves about Dane, but he merely lowered his head 
close to his horse’s neck and rode on. Then the 
vista ahead opened, as they came into a better piece 
of trail. 

Dane saw his quarry twisted about in the saddle, 
facing him and raising his gun. Dane’s own weapon 
snapped forward, but, before he could shoot, the 
plunging horse of the man ahead stopped suddenly 


252 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


and leaped to the left, sending his rider headlong 
upon a white surface which gleamed with ghostly 
pallor in the morning light—a soap hole. 

Dane reined in the bay, staring grimly at the 
man who was struggling wildly in the oozy, sucking 
mud of the soap hole. He had lost his gun and was 
trying to crawl out, but, although he was only 
about six feet from the edge of the treacherous 
bog, he couldn’t make any progress. 

His feet and legs sank out of sight; he was nearly 
up to his waist when he turned his face, twisted in 
a grimace of deadly, horrible fear, up to Dane, who 
was sitting his horse and coolly shaking out his rope. 

“Throw it,” the man cried hoarsely. “I’m goin’ 
down fast. Throw it—throw it!” 

But Dane’s movements were tantalizingly de¬ 
liberate. His lids were narrowed over eyes in which 
shone a cold light of recognition. For the man 
in the bog was the man who had been with Bunker 
in The Palace in Black Butte and had tried to 
draw on the night Dane had knocked Bunker down 
the stairs. 

By this time the man had sunk in up to his waist. 
He thrashed about, desperately trying to extricate 
himself, but his movements only served to hurry the 
deadly action of the sucking sands. An unearthly 
terror was in his face. He made queer, guttural 
sounds, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead 
in beads. His eyes shone with a wild, agonized look 
of doubt, as he fixed them upon Dane. He wet his 
lips and tried to shout, but all that came was a 
croak. He pushed at the surface of the mire, and 


THE WORTH OF A ROPE 


253 

his hands came away dripping with the black, slimy 
mud, streaked with alkali. 

He was in above his waist. Inch by inch the 
devouring sands of the soap hole were dragging 
him down to the most horrible of all deaths feared 
by man. Dane held his rope ready in his hand. The 
man looked up at him in a frenzy of pleading. His 
face was ghastly. His lips twitched with the fear 
which gripped his heart; his hands opened and closed 
convulsively upon the yielding surface of the bog. 

“Hold up your arms!” 

Dane’s rope was whirling. 

A wild look of hope came into the man’s eyes, 
as he weakly raised his arms. 

The loop hissed through the air, settled over the 
man’s head and shoulders, tightened under his arms. 
The bay braced back against the rope, as Dane took 
two turns about the saddle horn. Then he drew the 
man out of the mire up to his waist and held him 
there. The man drew a hand across his brow, leav¬ 
ing a streak of mud. The light of sanity had re¬ 
turned to his eyes, and he looked up eagerly. 

“He can—pull me out,” he said, recovering his 
voice with the return of hope. “Get me out—get 
me out quick 

“I reckon there’s about three questions you’ve got 
to answer before you can get out of there,” said 
Dane crisply. “I’m hopin’ you answer ’em, because 
if you don’t I’m goin’ to have to let this rope go 
back in with you.” 

The terror came into the man’s eyes again. 


254 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“Who shot Williams in the back?” Dane de¬ 
manded narrowly. 

For just a moment the man hesitated. “That old 
witch doctor that lives in here,” he said, clutching 
the rope with his hands. 

“You mean the hermit?” 

“Yes, the hermit.” 

“I don’t believe it,” said Dane, giving the rope a 
little slack. 

“It was him!” cried the man, as he felt himself 
slip back into the depths of the soap hole. “I was 
ridin’ herd there an’ saw him in the trees with a 
rifle. I saw you, too, but the shot didn’t come 
from you. Pull me out—I can prove it!” 

“How’re you goin’ to prove it ?'” asked Dane 
coolly. 

“It was a soft-nosed rifle bullet that hit Williams. 
I found the shell. I’ve got it.” 

The sweat was pouring from the man’s face, as 
he clung to the rope which was drawn taut, hold¬ 
ing the upper part of his body out of the bog. 

“What became of the hundred head of cattle 
taken from the bottoms about two months ago?” 
Dane asked. 

“They’re in here somewhere, but I don’t know 
where,” was the answer. “They’re cached. The 
hermit knows,” he added quickly. 

This coincided with Dane’s own belief. 

“Who’s the head of this gang of rustlers?” he 
asked. 

“I don’t know anything about the rustlers!” cried 
the man. “I ain’t been doin’ any rustlin’.” 


THE WORTH OF A ROPE 


255 


Dane again gave the rope some slack, and the 
man yelled in terror, as he sank a foot above his 
waist into the sand. 

“It didn’t look like it to-night, did it!” said Dane 
grimly. 

“I wasn’t rustlin’,” screamed the other, trying 
vainly to pull himself out by the rope which was 
gradually slackening. “All the orders I got was to 
stampede the herd!” 

“Who gave that order?” asked Dane sternly. 

The man looked wildly about. His face was 
ashen. Inch by inch he felt himself sinking—sink¬ 
ing. 

“Bunker!” he shrieked. Then his head sagged 
upon the rope, as he fainted. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD 

W HEN Dane had dragged the senseless man out 
of the soap hole he put his slicker about him, 
caught his horse, which had been standing with 
reins dangling at the left of the bog, lifted the man 
into the saddle and, with the bay following, started 
out of the brakes with him. 

The man regained consciousness when they 
reached the bottoms, but was too weak to ride after 
his terrible experience, his frantic exertions in the 
mire, and the enervating reaction from his mental 
torture. 

Dane took him on his own saddle and held him 
in front of him, as he rode to the ranch. There he 
was put in a bunk in the bunk house under the 
watchful eye of old Marty, who knew him for one 
of the cow-punchers hired on the Flying W early 
that spring. 

“When Bunker came he put on a lot of new 
men,” Marty told Dane. “Williams only kept four 
or five hands durin’ the winter, an’ Bunker didn’t 
hire any of the old crowd when they showed up in 
the spring. This feller was one of the new ones.” 

Dane nodded in comprehension. He thought he 
understood why Bunker wanted his own crowd about 
him. 


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD 


257 


Esther came running out to ask Dane how it came 
he was back at the ranch. He told her a little of 
what had happened, but the girl could tell by his 
grave expression that it was more serious than his 
explanation indicated. 

“You must come to the house and have some¬ 
thing to eat,” she said commandingly. “No, the 
cook shack is empty. The cook from here went up 
north when you took the other cook on the beef 
drive.” 

So Dane followed her into the kitchen, remark¬ 
ing that something should be sent out to the pris¬ 
oner in the bunk house later in the morning. 

Esther did not tell her mother what Dane had 
told her, or what she suspected. She insisted upon 
preparing Dane’s breakfast, herself, while he sat 
in a straight-backed chair and watched her. Again 
in the possession of his normal health and strength, 
he did not feel any need of sleep. He pondered over 
what the man had told him at the soap hole. The 
hermit had shot Williams; the hermit knew where 
the cattle were cached; Bunker had given his men 
orders to stampede the beeves! 

He smiled at Esther, as she placed food for 
him upon the kitchen table. 

“I didn’t know biscuits like these went with an 
Eastern education,” he told her with a grin. 

Esther flushed and regarded him disapprovingly. 
“You should have combed your hair,” she retorted 
with a flash of amusement in her eyes. 

“Well, now, ma’am, what d’ye think of that!” he 
exclaimed, wide-eyed and abashed. “An’ here I’m 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


258 

all mud from draggin’ that fellow out of the soap 
hole. I plumb forgot to fix myself up. I’m beg- 
gin’ your pardon.” 

He started to rise. 

“Sit right there and eat your breakfast,” Esther 
said sternly, pushing him back into his chair. “Your 
hair looks better mussed up, anyway. Besides, 
you’re not supposed to be a—a dandy,” she ban¬ 
tered. “You bad men are supposed to look sort of 
fierce. Your beard’s got to be an inch longer and 
kind of bristle out more before you’ll look the part.” 

Dane’s white teeth flashed in a brilliant smile. 

“I reckon if I wasn’t seein’ you in a gingham 
apron for the first time you wouldn’t be sayin’ that, 
ma’am,” he replied with a chuckle. 

“S-o,” she said, arching her brows and coloring. 
“You’re becoming observing, too.” 

“I ain’t exactly blind, ma’am; I like flowers an’ 
trees an’ all sorts of pretty things.” 

“Including dance-hall girls,” Esther taunted, toss¬ 
ing her head. 

Dane laughed boyishly. “Sure—you bet,” he 
chuckled. “But you see, I ain’t met many girls 
that was Eastern graduates.” 

Esther turned away, confused. She looked at him 
slyly, as he was eating. That laugh and his natural 
humor hardly seemed in keeping with the supposed 
accomplishments of a gunman. Suddenly the pound 
of hoofs was heard without. Esther hurried to 
the door. 

“Why, it’s father and some others!” she cried. 


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD 


259 

Dane left the table hurriedly and brushed past 
her, cramming on his hat. 

Gordon Hughes and two other men were dis¬ 
mounting near the bunk house. Dane, hastening to¬ 
ward them, saw with surprise that one of the men 
was the hermit. 

Gordon Hughes’ face was dark, and his eyes were 
snapping. 

“Take him in the bunk house an’ keep him there 
till I get ready to tend to his case.” 

He saw Dane, and his eyes flashed angrily. 
“Where have you been?” he demanded aggressively. 

Dane drew him aside and quickly explained what 
had happened. 

“I thought so,” snapped Hughes. “That old rat 
Williams an’ Bunker are behind this. I’ll make that 
man you got an’ the hermit talk, or I’ll snap their 
necks at the end of a rope!” 

Hoof beats again rode on the wind, and Fred 
Hughes and Buck Colter came riding up to the little 
group. 

“Lost ’em,” said Fred to Dane. “Don’t know 
where they went into the brakes. Couldn’t find a 
sign of a trail.” 

Dane smiled in understanding. Very likely the 
men had taken the mysterious trail which Marie had 
used on her visits to the cabin of the hermit. 

Fred looked at his father questioningly. The 
rancher was glowering about, apparently undecided 
as to the next move. 

“I’ve sent a man for some of the boys from the 
north range,” he ruminated, partly to himself. 


26 o 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“They’ll be here pretty quick. That crowd tried to 
get away with some of the shorthorns,” he said 
angrily, turning to Dane. “Killed two of my men. 
We shot down three of ’em an’ got the old fellow. 
Rest of ’em beat it.” 

Dane then explained how he had been restless 
and had been riding under the stars in the cool air 
of early morning when he saw the raiders come 
down from the north. 

“I saw you come from the west,” said Fred 
Hughes, his face turning a deep red. “I thought 
you’d gone out there to—to start the ball rolling. 
I guess maybe it was lucky you stopped me from 
tearin’ down into that crowd.” It was as much of 
an apology as the boy could make, and Dane made 
it easier for him by laughing and telling how he, 
himself, had been stopped by a shower of bullets, 
one of which had killed a steer. 

Esther had joined them and was listening with 
her eyes wide and her lips parted in excitement. 

“I’ll teach • Williams an’ his crowd a lesson!” 
thundered Gordon Hughes. “A couple of dead 
weights swingin’ from the big cottonwood will show 
’em there’s still a man-made law for rustlers an’ 
raiders in this country.” 

There was a deep silence following his words. 

“What’re you aimin’ to do, dad?” Fred asked 
soberly. 

“I’m goin’ to hang the prisoners at sundown!” 
Hughes exclaimed. 

“Father!” cried Esther. “You can’t do— that.” 

“Go in the house,” roared Hughes. “No one is 


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD 


261 


goin’ to tell me how to run this ranch in a time like 
this. It’ll be a week before I can ship the cattle 
after last night’s work, an’ that’ll be too late. I 
staked the Diamond H on that beef herd!” 

He strode away toward the front of the house, 
where his wife was waiting on the porch. Dane 
signaled to Fred to follow him and walked toward 
the barn. 

“Is that car of yours in runnin’ shape again?” 
he asked the boy. 

“Sure,” said Fred, looking perplexed. 

“Then get to Black Butte as fast as you can an’ 
fetch Marie out here,” said Dane. 

“Why—what-” Again that smoldering, mys¬ 

terious look welled in the boy’s eyes. 

“Don’t ask any questions,” snapped Dane. “Do 
as I tell you. If she wants to know anything, tell 
her what your father is figurin’ on doin’ at sun¬ 
down. She’ll come. Better take a couple of men 
with you in case you should meet anybody.” 

“But, dad’ll think it’s strange that-” 

“Don’t tell him,” exclaimed Dane sharply. “This 
is right well important. I ain’t got time to tell you 
why. I want to see you get started right away. 
Don’t worry; I’m responsible. It’s time you begun 
to show a little confidence in me, I reckon. Get that 
girl!” 

Gordon Hughes evidently did not hear the car 
when Fred left for town, taking the little wrangler, 
Servais, and Colter with him. Dane went into the 
bunk house, where he found the man he had cap¬ 
tured that morning, shaking with a chill and mum- 




262 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


bling incoherently. He tried to make him talk, but 
couldn’t. The man had been nearly frightened to 
death. 

The hermit glared at him out of bloodshot eyes. 
His only reply to Dane’s questions was a snarl. He 
clawed at his white beard and hair, and Dane looked 
at him, puzzled. He now looked as he had appeared 
on the day Dane had remained with him during 
the electric storm. The man who had come down 
with Hughes sat on guard in the bunk house, with 
a six-shooter on his knee. 

Dane went to look after his horse and found 
Servais had put him in a box stall, worked his coat 
to a glossy finish, and blanketed him. He visited 
the stallion, as he had done many times since he 
had captured him in the meadow in the bad lands. 
He had advanced so far in making friends with the 
magnificent, big black that he could rub him on the 
nose and pat his neck without being snapped at. 

Ten men arrived from the north range early in 
the afternoon. Gordon Hughes came out to them. 

“Did Shay go over to look after the beeves?” 
he asked the cow-puncher he had sent with the 
message to the cow boss that morning. 

The man nodded. “Took all the men in the north 
but these, an’ two others that he left there, with 
him,” he replied. 

Hughes grunted in satisfaction. “Tell the men 
to get fresh horses out of the pasture an’ to pick 
out the best,” he instructed. “They can eat when 
they get back.” 

He returned to the house without noticing the 


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD 263 

absence of Fred and the others. Dane realized that 
Hughes had much on his mind. 

They all ate late in the afternoon in the bunk 
house. Esther and her aunt served them. Gordon 
Hughes came out and, noticing Fred’s absence, asked 
about him. Dane purposely ignored the query, and 
the others could furnish no information. Hughes 
finally decided with a deep scowl that Fred and the 
others had gone out scouting on their own initiative. 

He tried to question the hermit, but met with no 
success. 

“Get your horses!” he ordered the men. 

Dane already had saddled his horse. He rode 
out of the barn, up to the road and looked anxiously 
in the direction of the town. Fred and the girl 
should have returned two hours ago, he reasoned. 
Even if Fred had had to wait for a time in town, 
he should have been back before then. But there 
was no veil of dust or other sign of the little car 
returning. 

He saw a cavalcade of riders below him making 
past the barn and the hay shed. He rode slowly 
along the road to the cottonwood tree. The riders 
came up with Gordon Hughes in the lead. Dane 
saw the hermit and the man he had captured riding 
behind, closely guarded by Diamond H men. 

Hughes ordered two of the men to throw their 
ropes over a limb of the cottonwood. The prisoners 
were brought up under the overhanging limb. There 
was a dead silence. Gordon Hughes’ face was 
drawn and grim. Evidently he was determined to 
make an example of the hermit and the other. And, 


264 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


tinder ordinary circumstances, Dane reflected that 
he would be justified. It was the unwritten law 
of the West. 

He rode close to the rancher. 

“You goin’ to give these men a chance to talk?” 
he asked quietly. 

Hughes swung on him. “They can talk if tl^’re 
so minded,” he said. “But they’ve got to be quick 
about it, for I ain’t goin’ to ask ’em.” 

“That man’s sick,” said Dane steadily, pointing 
to the man he had rescued from the soap hole. 

“He ain’t too sick to talk if he wants to,” snapped 
Hughes. 

“I reckon he is,” said Dane, looking the rancher 
square in the eyes. 

“Are you goin’ to tell me what to do?” asked 
Hughes angrily. 

“Gordon Hughes, I’m only askin’ you to use your 
own good sense,” said Dane in a loud, clear voice 
that rang upon all ears. “That man went through 
a lot this mornin’. I saw him. I kept him there till 
he talked. He’ll talk again when he gets at himself. 
Anyway I ran him down, an’ I fished him out of 
the soap hole, an’ I’m goin’ to say what’s goin’ to 
be done with him!” 

“You’re goin’ to protect no cattle thief on this 
ranch,” roared Hughes. 

Dane colored, but his gaze was steel-blue, as it 
burned into the rancher’s eyes. 

“You’re puttin’ it the wrong way, Hughes,” he 
said firmly. “An’ I’ve a good reason why I don’t 
want to see that hermit hanged.” 


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD 265 

He held up a hand, as Hughes opened his mouth 
to speak. 

“Wait a minuteT Dane’s words were as sharp 
as the crack of a whiplash. “You’re wantin’ to put 
the only two men who can tell us anything out of 
the way. Is that usin’ good sense, Hughes?” 

“They’ve got the chance to talk now,” said 
Hughes, looking at the two prisoners. 

The man whom Dane had captured was swaying 
in his saddle, shaking as if with the ague, dull and 
uncomprehending. The hermit was staring straight 
ahead, mumbling to himself. His eyes were blood¬ 
shot, lit with a brilliant fire in the contracted pupils. 
His hands fumbled at his sides. 

“Scared to death—an’ with good reason,” said 
Gordon Hughes. “Put the neckties on ’em!” 

“I reckon I wouldn’t do that.” Dane’s tone was 
crisp, cold. “I’m still thinkin’ we’d better wait.” 

“Then you’re thinkin’, an’ that’s all,” said Hughes 
harshly. 

Dane whirled the bay completely around. When 
he faced them the next instant he was a few paces 
farther away, where he could see every face. His 
gun was in his hand. 

“Til drill the first man that makes a move with 
the ropes!” 

The group was so still it might have been marble. 
Gordon Hughes saw a look in Dane’s eyes which 
he had never seen there before. The youthful- 
appearing countenance was suddenly grimly terrible; 
the eyes were lit with positive determination. There 


266 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


was the potent suggestion of utter finality in the 
menace of the gun. 

Suddenly from the road behind them came a hail, 
followed by many shouts. Dane saw the gaze of 
Hughes and the others shift to the road. Surprise 
was mirrored in their eyes. 

A girl screamed. 

Dane shoved his gun back into its holster, as 
Hughes turned his puzzled glance back to him. 

“That’s what I was waitin’ for,” he told the 
rancher with a queer smile. 

A weird, guttural cry came from the hermit, as 
the girl, Marie, ran toward him, sobbing. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE CACHE 


S the girl came up, Gordon Hughes dismounted, 



* * and Dane followed his example. Marie was 
crying, holding her father's hands, as he stooped 
over her and showed his first intelligent interest in 
the proceedings. Fred, Servais, and Colter joined 
the group. 

Marie looked with staring eyes at the ropes 
thrown over the limb of the cottonwood. 

“Oh, what was you going to do ?” she cried. 

Dane stepped forward. He saw Fred staring in 
astonishment. Gordon Hughes was frowning in 
deep perplexity. 

“Marie,” said Dane gently, “I reckon this thing 
has come to a show-down. Your father was caught 
this mornin’ with a bunch of men who raided the 
Diamond H beef herd an’ tried to make away with 
some cattle. There’s some men been killed, an’ it’s 
a right serious business. I’ve protected your father 
as long as I can, an’ I only protected him so this 
thing could be straightened out some time.” 

“Her father!” exclaimed Gordon Hughes. 

“Ah, yes,” said the girl tenderly, to the astonish¬ 
ment of all except Dane, “he ees my father. He 
ees not bad. It ees the men who bother him— 
that Bunker an’ that Williams. They put the fear 


268 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


in his heart that they will tell he kill a man once— 
but it was fair! He would not steal the cattle by 
himself. They make heem help.” 

The hermit kept looking at her, wetting his lips 
with his tongue and mumbling. 

“He ees the bad to-day,” the girl continued with 
a sob in her voice. “He does not know so well. 
He ees by the tree when the lightnin’ strike it an’ 

knock him down. And since-” She tapped 

her head sorrowfully. 

“A little off,” said Dane to Hughes. He knew 
now why the hermit had been in such a mental 
state during the storm. 

“He ees knock down by the lightnin’ in the East, 
where we live then,” resumed Marie. “My mother 
she die, an’ we come to the West. We work for that 
man William before he buy the Flying Doubleyoo, 
an’ my father he kill the man who try to—bother 
me.” 

There were tears in the girl’s eyes, as she patted 
the old man’s hands. 

“Williams he bring us up here. An’ then we leave 
because Williams he want to marry me. My father 
go into the bad lands, for hees head it ees not right. 
I work in the dance hall an’ give my father money 
he need an’ save so when he get so bad I can take 
care of heem. That is why I work there. Brady, 
he pay me well, an’ the mens they give me money 
when I sing an’ dance for them. An’ I save for 
my father.” 

Fred Hughes had stepped to the girl’s side. His 
face was strangely white. His father kept his eyes 



THE CACHE 269 

on the girl and listened intently. The reflected glow 
of the sunset lent a halo to her face. 

“Then the man Bunker come,” the girl went on 
in a low voice. “He ees ver’ bad man. He ees 
know some men who take the cattle, an he make 
my father watch them in a secret place, an’ he say 
if he do not do as he say, Williams will have my 
father to the jail for the mans he kill. An’ my 
father ’fraid, for hees head is bad.” 

Again she touched the wealth of hair beneath her 
cap. 

“If he ees with the men who do bad las’ night, 
it ees because Bunker tell him to go!” she said 
fiercely. 

Hughes and Dane exchanged glances. The girl’s 
statement coincided with that made by the man Dane 
had rescued from the bog. 

“You are not goin’ to hurt heem?” cried Marie. 

“No.” It was Dane who answered. Gordon 
Hughes remained silent. 

“My father, he think Williams make me work in 
the dance hall, an’ he ees ver’ angry,” smiled Marie. 
Her lashes were wet with tears. 

“Marie, can you tell us who shot Williams?” 
Dane asked. 

“No, no, I not know. My father say he found 
you an’ take you to the cabeen. You say you lose 
your gun, an’ he go back an’ find it. Then I take 
it an’ give it to you for the proof that I tell you all 
thees some time.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me before, Marie?” 

“I am afraid of Bunker. He bother me.” She 


270 RIDER O’ THE STARS 

shuddered, and Fred touched her reassuringly on 
the shoulder. 

“Didn’t your father tell you who shot Williams ?” 
Dane persisted. 

“I shot him!” Every one started, as the hermit 
spoke. They saw him straighten in the saddle and 
pull his hands away from Marie’s. His eyes were 
glittering points of fire. “I shot him/’ he repeated. 

“No, no, no,” cried the girl. 

“Let him talk,” said Gordon Hughes. 

“I shot him, for he is a snake!” shrilled the 
hermit. “He should die. I will shoot him again!” 

In a twinkling the hermit was out of his saddle. 
He stood in the center of the group, a wild figure, 
his white hair flying in the breeze, his face ghastly 
in the failing light. 

“I’ll shoot him again!” he shrieked and began 
to fumble at the saddle on the horse he had ridden, 
searching for his missing rifle. 

Then he laughed, and Dane’s blood froze, as he 
listened. He had never heard such a laugh. The 
hermit looked around with that glittering light in his 
eyes. His hands were trembling. Marie had stepped 
back and was looking at him in anguish. 

With a wild shriek the hermit leaped forward, 
then Hughes and Dane and Fred bore him struggling 
to the ground. It was all they could do to hold 
him, while he writhed and twisted his body and 
raved. He quieted suddenly, and, when they lifted 
him up, he again looked straight ahead out of 
bloodshot eyes. 

“It ees come,” said Marie with a moan. “It has 


THE CACHE 


271 

been too much—all thees trouble. Hees head—it— 
is gone!” 

Fred put his arm about her. 

“Take him to the bunk house,” Gordon Hughes 
ordered. “And take this other fellow back, too.” 
He turned to the girl, as the men set about carrying 
out his commands. 

“You had better come to the house an’ rest,” he 
said kindly. 

“He might have did eet,” sobbed the girl. “He 
maybe did shoot Williams. He no tell me. Now he 
ees gone—it was the lightnin’ that strike heem. It 
is Bunker who ees the snake!” she cried, clenching 
her small fists and looking straight at Dane. “He 
ees maybe in the place with the cattle,” she cried. “I 
will take you there!” 

“You must rest first,” said Dane with a look at 
Hughes. 

Fred spoke now for the first time in a trembling 
voice. “The car broke down,” he said unsteadily. 
“We had to walk most of the way back. She has 
no horse.” 

Dane handed him the reins of his bridle, and 
Fred helped the girl to mount. They walked back 
to the ranch house. 

The edge of Gordon Hughes’ anger had been 
dulled by the story of the girl. Dane, too, had 
felt the power of Marie’s argument which had been 
advanced not so much by her actual words, as by 
the hardship and sorrow she had suffered and the 
sacrifices she had made. Here was a dance-hall girl 
who was worthy of the respect of any man or 


272 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


woman; yet she had asked nothing of any one, 
had endured the scorn of her own sex, and had 
bravely bantered the men out of the attitude they 
were wont to assume toward one of her vocation. 

Hughes and Dane entered the bunk house. The 
man whom Dane had captured and rescued, was 
tossing and turning in troubled sleep. 

“He’ll be all right to-morrow,” said Dane. “He 
will have plenty to tell us yet. His story and the 
girl’s agree, an’ I ain’t forgot he told me Marie’s 
father shot Williams.” 

The hermit sat on his bunk, staring with unseeing 
eyes. He did not recognize them, and Gordon 
Hughes shook his head. The rancher appeared 
fascinated by the sight of the old man whose mental 
status had reverted to that of a young child. As 
they walked toward the house, Hughes looked curi¬ 
ously at Dane several times. He paused on the 
porch steps. 

“Would you have shot if the men had started to 
carry out my order?” he asked with a frown. 

“Would you have gone through with the hanging 
if I hadn’t?” Dane countered, smiling. 

Gordon Hughes shrugged and led the way into 
the house. Esther met them in the sitting room, 
and Dane could tell by her expression that Fred 
had told her the story of Marie. She said the 
girl had been put to bed. 

Hughes turned to Dane. “She’s in no shape 
to show us the place where the cattle are cached 
now, an’ I don’t think they’d be likely to try to 
get ’em started out of the bad lands to-night. Have 


THE CACHE 


273 


the men out before daylight, an’ we’ll go after ’em 
in the morning.” 

As Dane left the house, Fred came out on the 
porch. Night had fallen, but Dane could see the 
boy’s grave face by the light of the stars. Fred 
held out his hand, and Dane grasped it warmly. 

“Do you think that much of her?” he asked. 

“An’—more,” said Fred, as he turned back into 
the house. 

Dane knew it was jealousy which had caused the 
boy to jump upon Bunker and to be suspicious of 
him. He smiled wanly at the recollection of the 
scene in Marie’s room. For some time he stood 
looking into the night; then he sought his bunk. 

They were up an hour before dawn. Marie, 
looking tired, but determined, did not ask to see 
her father before they started. Esther put her arms 
about the girl and kissed her as she mounted. 
She rode in the lead, with Fred and his father on 
either side of her. Dane, Servais, Colter, and a 
number of cow-punchers rode behind. The dawn 
was breaking. 

Leading them past the trail which Dane knew, 
Marie turned into the deep ravine on the Flying W 
side of the strip. When they came to the trees 
and bushes at its upper end, Marie pushed on through 
the tangle and came out upon the trail which had 
thus been so well concealed that Dane couldn’t 
find it. 

She led them to the meadow containing her 
father’s cabin, then on to the meadow beyond where 
Dane had captured the stallion, and down the trail 


274 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


toward the river. When she reached the high, 
rocky ridge, which was nearest the river slope, she 
turned up it abruptly. On the crest she pointed 
below. 

They saw a mass of stunted trees and bushes 
on the west slope and a connecting ridge between 
the bare ridge they were on and another wooded 
ridge west of them. 

Servais explained to Dane in a whisper that he 
had been on the wooded ridge the first day they 
had searched for the missing cattle. Far below, the 
timber grew thick at the head of a wide ravine. 
Servais recognized the place. He had come up the 
ravine and had turned west when he struck the 
timber and bushes. 

The girl was talking in a low voice. 

“They bring the cattle up here an’ down through 
the timber. There ees trails on both sides—look! 
One starts here. My father, he show me. It ees 
hollow under this.” She pointed to the connecting 
ridge. “An’ the trees they shut the place off.” 

Both Dane and Servais saw at once how the 
herd from the bottoms had disappeared. It had 
been driven up the rocky slope, the rain washing 
away the faint tracks as soon as they were made, 
and had disappeared in the timber by the time they 
gained the top of the ridge where the hermit had 
been shooting. 

Hughes sent Dane with some men down to the 
timber barrier at the head of the ravine below. 
He sent Fred, Servais, and Colter to the other ridge, 
and, with two men, himself took the trail from the 


THE CACHE 


275 

point on top the highest ridge. The orders were 
to “go in and let ’em have it.’’ He delegated a 
man to go with Marie to a point of safety in the 
timber, along the trail by which they had come. 
They were to go in at the end of a quarter of an 
hour, and the watches of the leaders were set alike. 

When the time was up, Dane led his men in 
through the thick stand of jack pines. He could 
hear the others on either side of him. In another 
moment all the riders broke through into a large 
meadow, the farther end of which was under the 
overhanging ridge. There they saw the cattle. 

Swiftly they rode around the herd of cows and 
calves and steers and, with guns drawn, charged 
the farther end of the meadow. But they found 
no one. A thorough search of the timber which 
screened the hidden meadow, failed to net results 
in the way of a fight or capture, or any signs what¬ 
ever of the rustlers. 

“They’ve beat it,” said Hughes in a tone of dis¬ 
appointment. 

Inspection of the cattle showed them to be mostly 
Diamond H stock. Hughes estimated that all the 
cattle stolen from him were there. Mixed with 
them were less than fifty head wearing the Flying 
W iron. 

“Reckon they figured that gettin’ three men killed, 
countin’ the one you shot in the bad lands the time 
you chased ’em, an’ losin’ the hermit an’ another 
captured, was enough,” said Hughes to Dane. 

Dane was looking about with a grim smile. “You 
know, Hughes, when an onery steer gets to rilin’ 


276 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


up a herd an’ makin’ things troublesome, the thing 
to do is get rid of him,” he said. “Same way with 
this rustlin’ gang. We’ve got to get the one that’s 
makin’ all the trouble, I take it.” 

Hughes frowned. “There’s Flyin’ W stock here,” 
he observed. 

“I reckon Bunker or Williams wanted to protect 
themselves that a way,” said Dane. 

Hughes continued his inspection of the cattle 
and found they were in good shape. There was 
water in the big meadow, and evidently the cattle 
had ranged in the timber, also. None of the calves 
had been branded, and he surmised that the rustlers 
had intended to keep the herd until the calves could 
be weaned; then they would drive them south, with 
such beeves as they might be able to get away 
with, and use a running iron. 

Hughes detailed five men, in charge of Dane, to 
drive the cattle back to the Diamond H bottoms, 
after the Flying W stock had been cut out. He 
told Dane, as he prepared to leave with Fred and 
the others, that they would take Marie back to 
the ranch with them. 

Dane knew how to work cattle. He had the 
stolen Diamond H stock in the bottoms below the 
hay shed by early afternoon, and then he rode 
to the house. Esther Hughes came out on the 
porch, as he rode up. 

“Where’s your father?” Dane asked, swinging 
his hat low. 

“He went to town with Fred and Marie and one 
of the cow-punchers.” 


THE CACHE 


277 


Dane thought for a moment. There were enough 
men at the ranch to protect it in event of a raid. 
And Gordon Hughes had doubtless gone to Black 
Butte to have it out with Sam Stevens, the banker. 
The rancher might have other difficulties there. 

“The sheriff was here—looking for you/’ said 
Esther. 

Dane’s eyes widened. 

“But when he heard what dad told him he went 
off in his car with the man you captured,” smiled 
the girl. 

Dane looked gravely about, avoiding her eyes. 

She stepped forward to the edge of the porch. 
“There—there isn’t going to be any more trouble, 
is there, Mr. Dane?” 

“I reckon I ain’t able to answer that, ma’am,” 
he said soberly. 

Then he spurred his horse away from the porch, 
past the bunk house and barn, and up to the road 
leading to town. 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE KILLER 

I T was a Thursday and the first day of the annual 
rodeo, when Gordon Hughes, Fred, and Marie 
rode into Black Butte at noon. The town was 
filled with people who had come from miles around 
to participate in the celebration. The short main 
street was jammed with a colorful throng, the 
resorts were crowded, bunting and flags waved 
and fluttered in the breeze everywhere. The spirit 
of carnival was abroad. 

Gordon Hughes felt none of this spirit. His 
face was set and grim; his eyes had the keen look 
of an animal’s; he was like some lord of the forest 
at bay. He looked questioningly at Marie and 
Fred, as they drew up at the barn and corrals 
behind the hotel. 

“I’ll put the horses up,” said Fred. “An’ I’ll 
look after Marie. She’s not goin’ back to The 
Palace.” 

Hughes gazed wonderingly as he saw the girl 
flush, although there was a look of pain in her eyes. 

“All right,” he said with a shrug, dismounting. 
“I’ve some business to attend to, an’ then I’ll come 
back to the hotel lookin’ for you two. I’ll help you 
get something better than workin’ at The Palace,” 
he added, nodding to Marie. 


THE KILLER 


279 


Fred dismounted with a smile which his father 
could not see, and as Hughes walked away, he helped 
Marie from the saddle, held her tight for a moment 
upon the ground, and told her to wait while he 
put up the horses. 

Gordon Hughes went straight to the little building 
which housed the American Bank of Black Butte. 

He found the bank open, despite the holiday, and 
stamped through the front room to the door of 
Sam Stevens' private office, where he knocked 
loudly. Stevens opened the door, started when 
he recognized his visitor, then invited him in with 
an elaborate bow. 

Hughes flung his hat upon the banker's desk and 
pulled up a chair. 

“Sit down, Stevens. There’s trouble to pay," 
he said, without waiting for any polite preliminaries, 
such as the banker was wont to indulge in before 
beginning a business consultation. 

“What is it?" asked Stevens, a frown appearing 
on his pasty face. Evidently he resented the ranch¬ 
er’s peremptory manner. 

“I can’t market the cattle in time to get you 
your money by the fifteenth," said Gordon Hughes, 
looking the other straight in the eyes. “But I can 
make it by the twentieth or a day or two later," 
he added cheerfully. 

“That won’t do," said the banker shortly. “You 
know when your paper is due. Don’t forget I've 
a mortgage on those cattle, Hughes. I trusted you 
to be able to attend to the marketing in time. I 
need cash.” 


280 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Hughes held his wrath in check by a supreme 
effort. “Wait until you hear what happened,” he 
said in a voice which vibrated with intense feeling. 

“Eve heard what happened,” said Stevens coolly. 

“Where’d you hear?” asked Hughes in amaze¬ 
ment. 

“Those things get around quickly,” replied the 
banker, idling with some papers upon his desk. 

“An’ maybe there’s a reason for that,” said the 
rancher darkly. “Those cattle were stampeded, an’ 
an attempt was made to steal some of ’em. We 
shot two of the raiders an’ caught another that’s 
talked, an’ he is ready to take some more. An’ 
we got the hermit—know him? We got him an’ 
his story. It’s Williams an’ Bunker that’s behind 
this thing!” 

“What can you prove?” asked the banker in a 
hard voice. 

Hughes was taken aback. “Don’t you think we 
can prove anything with what we’ve seen an’ two 
men confessing?” he thundered. 

“The hermit’s crazy, and it’s the other man’s 
word against the word of others,” returned the 
banker coldly. “Williams has been losin’ cattle 
himself, he says. An’ now he’s lookin’ for men 
to get in his beeves. He claims you’ve run his men 
off the range.” 

“He lies!” shouted Hughes. “He’s lost his men 
because they was stealin’ an’ stampedin’ my stock— 
takin’ a few of his for a blind. It got too hot for 
’em, an’ they cleared out. It was through the 
hermit we found the cache of stolen cattle—nearly 


THE KILLER 


281 

two hundred head of mine an’ less than fifty head 
of his.” 

“I have nothing to do with that,” said the 
banker sharply, rising from his desk. “I’m running 
a bank. I’ve got to turn my paper into cash. If 
you’d got that boundary thing settled I’d have been 
able to realize on your paper with the county-seat 
banks.” 

“An’ I can get you your money with only five 
days or so delay,” said Hughes, also rising. “I 
had to rest the beeves an’ put ’em into condition 
again. I can ship by the tenth, say, in a pinch.” 

“Or you can sell them now,” suggested the 
banker, with a keen look at the stockman. 

“Yes? Where? Is there a buyer here ready 

to take ’em off my hands?” Hughes spoke eagerly. 

“Williams himself will give you seventy or 
seventy-five thousand dollars for them,” said Ste¬ 
vens. “That’ll clear you.” 

Hughes clenched his fists. His face purpled with 
the force of his passion. He made as if he would 
spring at Stevens. The banker’s face was white, 
but his eyes met those of the rancher squarely, as 
he drew an ivory-handled pistol from a side coat 
pocket. 

“If necessary I will protect myself with any means 
at hand,” he said, and backing to the door he threw 
it open. “Come in here,” he called to the clerk 
in the cage. 

Hughes disregarded the gun and the banker’s 
call for a witness. 

“Williams wants to buy the stock,” he said in a 


282 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


low, trembling voice. “An’ put the proposition 
through you. Seventy thousand—an’ me stand a 
loss of thirty thousand or so!” 

“My hands are tied!” cried the banker, a look 
of desperation in his eyes. “I need the cash, an’ 
Williams can get it—where, I don’t know or care!” 

“Then, I’ll ship the stock day after to-morrow,” 
shouted Hughes, shaking his fist in the other’s face. 
“I’ll stand the loss in weight an’ condition before 
I’ll let Williams have the cattle, or let you two 
split a penny of my money!” 

“I can hold up that shipment,” said Stevens, his 
voice shaking. 

“You can hold up nothing! You can notify 
Chicago to send you the draft for payment for the 
stock.” 

Gordon Hughes brushed the clerk out of his way 
with a force which sent him staggering to the wall 
and walked quickly out of the bank. He returned 
to the hotel, but could not find Fred or Marie. He 
sat down in a chair in the crowded lobby to think. 
He did not know where he could raise the large 
amount of cash Stevens wanted—even for the short 
period he would require it. Certainly it could not 
be raised north of Great Bend, the large city many 
miles south of the river; and he never had dealt 
with any banks there. No, he would have to ship 
the cattle. He would get them on the move again 
by the next day but one. He felt a hand on his 
shoulder and looked up quickly. 

It was Dane. 

Then he told Dane of his visit to the bank. Dane 


THE KILLER 


283 

listened attentively, his eyes alert. When Hughes 
had finished Dane regarded him with a smile, which 
the rancher thought was queer. 

“We can start the beeves again day after to¬ 
morrow all right, I reckon, if we have to,” said 
Dane, his eyes glowing dreamily. “But it would 
mean a loss, all right. An’ I’ve got something on 
my mind, too. Bunker was in town for a brief 
spell this mornin’.” 

“He hasn’t gone?” said Hughes. “Thinks he’s 
played safe?” 

“He was drinkin’ some,” said Dane. “Brady told 
me he said he’d shoot me on sight.” Again Hughes 
saw that peculiar smile. “An’ Brady’s worryin’ 
’bout Marie. I told him to forget it. I saw Fred 
an’ the girl dancing in the pavilion they’ve put 
up for the rodeo, an’ I don’t reckon Brady’ll ever 
see her in his place again.” 

“Eh?” asked Hughes. “I guess Fred’s tryin’ to 
make her forget about her father. Fred ain’t a 
bad kid. Bunker ain’t here now?” 

“Dunno,” said Dane. “I’m takin’ a little ride, 
an’ I’ll see you later.” 

Before Hughes could reply Dane was gone. 
Hughes went out looking for the dancing pavilion. 
He had made up his mind to stay in town that 
night. 

Dane walked to the east end of town and into 
the trees where his horse was tied. He led the bay 
out of the trees, mounted, and sped eastward toward 
the Diamond H, keeping a wary lookout for other 
riders. 


284 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


The knowledge that Bunker had not left the 
Flying W, but had had the temerity deliberately to 
enter town, was positive proof that he had no fear 
of the consequences of his move in ordering the 
stampede of Hughes’ cattle. Undoubtedly he had 
been promised protection from the law by Williams. 
Or, and this was likely, he had confidence in his 
ability to take care of himself against any one, and 
he had become savagely reckless after the failure 
of the plan to steal part of the Diamond H beef 
herd. For Dane felt certain that Bunker was the 
man behind the rustlers. 

Meanwhile his men had been frightened away. 
As Williams was looking for men it was apparent 
that his force had cleared out. Dane remembered 
that old Marty had mentioned that Bunker had hired 
a new crew that spring. Surely the men he took 
on were ready to follow his orders and had doubt¬ 
less been promised a substantial share of any profit 
accruing from the cattle-stealing operations. 

That queer smile played about Dane’s lips, as 
he remembered the warning of Willis Brady, pro¬ 
prietor of The Palace. 

“He says he’ll shoot you on sight 1” Brady had 
whispered. 

Dane reasoned that this showed that Bunker was 
enraged at him because he had helped to smash 
his schemes, and that Bunker had as well as said 
in so many words that his schemes were indeed 
shattered. 

“An’ maybe he thinks he’ll have plain sailing 
again with me out of the way, if he can do it so 


THE KILLER 285 

it won’t look too bad for him,” Dane mused to 
himself. 

He knew that in a case where two men drew 
their weapons the quicker shot could claim self- 
defense. It was a rule observed in all the courts 
of the northern range—in most of the West, for 
that matter. But the element of fairness would 
have to enter into it. If Bunker wanted to take 
an advantage, he would have to get out of the 
country. And, realizing that Bunker might not 
be adverse to taking an advantage which would 
give him the revenge he craved, Dane was minded 
to be careful. He did not intend to be taken 
unawares. 

It was late in the afternoon when he again reached 
the Diamond H. He at once sought out his friend, 
Servais. 

“Servais, I’ve got a hard ride to make,” he said 
briskly. “Eve got to make Great Bend to-night!” 

“Great Bend!” exclaimed the little wrangler. 
“Why so?” 

“Can’t tell you, Servais,” smiled Dane. “I want 
to ride the stallion.” 

Servais’ eyes popped. “The stallion? The big 
black, Jupiter? Dane, you’re crazy!” 

“No—no; I’m not crazy,” laughed Dane, although 
his eyes were serious. “I’m not crazy yet, anyway. 
My horse can’t stand the gaff for that distance. 
Besides, I’ve got to make time. The big black 
can take me there by daylight. He has the speed, 
an’ the endurance an’ the heart. He can turn the 
trick, an’ it won’t hurt him a bit.” 


286 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“I know/’ said the wrangler; ‘Tut you can’t ride 
him, Dane. He won’t let anybody but me ride 
him. He’ll bite an’ fight you. It wouldn’t be any 
use—you tryin’ to make it on him.” 

“Servais, you’re wrong,” said Dane, laying a hand 
on the little wrangler’s shoulder. “Eve got ac¬ 
quainted with that horse. I’ve petted him for 
weeks an’ made friends with him—been in the stall 
with him. You've seen me. He’s seen us both in 
there, seen us together, knows we’re friends. You 
can bring that horse out, and we’ll both saddle him; 
we’ll pet him; you can show him you want me to 
ride him, an’ he’ll let me ride him. You know 
horses, an’ I know horses, an’ that horse knows 
as much as the two of us. He’ll take me to Great 
Bend.” 

Dane stood back and guessed by the look on 
Servais’ face the struggle going on in the little 
wrangler’s mind. There was, as Dane knew, an¬ 
other reason why Servais didn’t want to let the 
horse go. The wrangler had been loath to mention 
this. The stallion was a thoroughbred and worth 
a lot of money. Gordon Hughes bought most of 
his saddle horses. He kept but a few mares, and 
those were thoroughbreds. This explained the num¬ 
ber of excellent saddle horses on the ranch; these 
animals Hughes reserved for his own use and that 
of his family and for emergencies when hard, fast 
riding was imperative. 

“I know what you’re thinking about,” said Dane 
earnestly. “If it wasn’t mighty important, Servais, 
I wouldn’t ask for the stallion.” 


THE KILLER 287 

Servais looked at him squarely. “All right,” he 
said simply. 

Together they brought out the magnificent horse 
and bridled and saddled him. Dane held him, rub¬ 
bing his nose, while Servais got his own horse. 

“I’m goin’ to ride with you a ways to see you 
get along all right,” said the wrangler. 

Esther Hughes came out and was astonished at 
what she saw. Dane, with a knowing look at 
Servais, answered vaguely when she asked him 
where he was going, but confessed he was going 
to ride Jupiter. Then she insisted that her own 
horse be saddled so she could ride along and see 
the result. 

Servais remained at the big black’s head while 
Dane mounted. The stallion danced about a little, 
shook his head, as if in distinct disapproval, and 
then trotted off in obedience to Dane’s voice and 
gentle spur. 

Servais and Esther rode with him to the trail 
into the bad lands, followed him to the first soap 
hole, and then watched him out of sight, as he rode 
swiftly toward the river and the great stretches of 
prairie which rolled southward to the mighty Mis¬ 
souri and the city of Great Bend. 

As the girl and Servais emerged from the brakes 
on their way back, a horseman came to a rearing 
stop before them. Esther caught her breath, as 
she recognized the rider. It was Bunker! 

The Flying W foreman’s face was dark with 
rage, his eyes gleaming red, his whole bearing ap¬ 
prehensive and sinister and recklessly bold. 


288 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


“Where’s Dane?” he demanded of Servais. 

“I dunno,” replied the little wrangler. 

“You lie!” exclaimed Bunker. 

“Ain’t you sort of forgettin’ there’s a lady here?” 
said Servais, his whole body trembling with emo¬ 
tion. 

Bunker ignored the question and the girl. “Dane’s 
beatin’ it out of the country for good!” he cried 
hoarsely. “He’s yellow! An’ you’ve give him the 
stallion to make his get-away sure, you little rat!” 

“I reckon that ain’t so, Bunker,” said Servais in 
a voice so chilling that Esther shuddered with a 
fear which gripped at her heart. 

She saw the look in Bunker’s eyes and tried to 
cry out. 

“You’re a stinkin’ little liar!” roared Bunker. 

Servais’ right hand struck just as Bunker’s gun 
blazed in the falling dusk. 

The little wrangler leaned forward in the saddle, 
toppled to one side, and dropped with a long-drawn 
sigh to the ground. 

Esther screamed, as Bunker spurred past her into 
the bad lands trail. 

She got off her horse, bent over Servais, and 
raised his head. By some whim of the fast-fading 
glow of the sunset a little ray of silver light played 
upon the staring eyes and set features. With sobs 
choking in her throat, she rested the head on the 
soft grass and covered the face with her handker¬ 
chief. Then she rode wildly for the ranch, welcom¬ 
ing the tears. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


NOT ON THE PROGRAM 

*T*HE next morning Esther, her mother, her 
* mount, and three of the Diamond H men arrived 
in Black Butte. They went to the hotel and waited 
while the men looked for Gordon Hughes. One 
of them returned an hour later with the information 
that the rancher could not be found. 

Mrs. Hughes was very much upset. After the 
tragic happening at the ranch the evening before 
she feared that her husband might have been 
molested. She had insisted upon coming to town 
to learn why he hadn’t come home. The men did 
not believe this, however, as they had heard that 
Hughes had been seen in town that morning, and 
it was ascertained that he and Fred had stayed at 
the hotel the night before. 

Esther, too, was worried. She did not know why 
Dane had ridden away on the stallion, or where 
he was going. She couldn’t help remembering 
Bunker’s declaration that Dane was running away 
for good. And Servais was dead and could not 
tell how he had come to let Dane have the stallion. 
Esther’s face became white, as she thought of the 
manner of the wrangler’s death. Bunker hadn’t 
given him a chance. 


290 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


The three women were glad indeed when Fred 
appeared with a cheerful smile on his face. 

“Dad went to the county seat in a car early this 
morning/’ he explained. “We had a room in the 
hotel last night. He had to stay over to see about 
some business with the lawyers up there. He’s 
goin’ on with the beeves to-morrow. He ought to 
be back by noon.” 

His eyes suddenly lighted up, as Marie came into 
the lobby. He walked to meet her. Both Esther 
and her mother greeted Marie warmly, although 
Mrs. Hughes appeared puzzled at the girl’s high 
color. 

Then Fred insisted that they all go out to where 
the rodeo contests were being held. 

“They’re bulldoggin’ steers this mornin’,” he said. 
“Dad should be along in time to eat dinner with 
us when we get back.” 

On the way through the crowded street Esther 
told Fred in snatches what had taken place at the 
ranch the afternoon and evening before. Fred 
stopped in his tracks and stared at her. 

“Servais?” he exclaimed. “An’ Dane gone?” 

Esther said she believed Servais had let Dane 
have the stallion by her father’s orders to go on 
some important errand. 

“Never!” said Fred stoutly. “Dad would have 
said something to me about it last night, if he had. 
He didn’t know where Dane had gone.” 

Both walked on in silence. Fred suddenly had 
lost interest in the bulldogging. Had Dane fled? 
Marie pressed him about it until he told her. 


NOT ON THE PROGRAM 


291 


“No, no,” she said quickly; “he will come back.” 

Esther heard the girl’s words and looked at her 
almost gratefully. She feared there would be more 
trouble if Dane came back, yet she wanted him 
back! She didn’t pause to analyze her thought. 
She remembered Bunker’s accusation that he was 
“yellow.” And she remembered with horror the 
shooting of Servais. If she had been a man and a 

gunman - Her lips tightened, and her eyes flashed 

in a way they hadn’t done since her return from the 
East. They went back to the hotel at noon. One 
of the men from the ranch approached Fred hur¬ 
riedly. 

“Dane’s been combin’ the town for yore dad,” he 
said. 

“Dane!” exclaimed Fred. “He’s back?” 

Esther’s eyes were shining, and Marie smiled at 
her and nodded. 

“Guess he wants to see yore dad powerful bad,” 
said the man. 

“What does he want with him?” asked Mrs. 
Hughes nervously. 

“Dunno,” said the cow-puncher. “Where is the 
boss?” 

Fred started to reply, but was stopped by a little 
cry from Marie. She was pointing at the door. 
They turned and saw Gordon Hughes entering. 

“Why did you come to town?” he asked his wife, 
as he joined them. 

Mrs. Hughes and Esther told him what had hap¬ 
pened, and why they were anxious about him. His 



RIDER O’ THE STARS 


292 

face became dark, as he learned of Servais’ death. 
Then his look gave way to surprise. 

“But why did Dane take the stallion?” he asked. 
“He didn’t tell me he wanted to use Jupiter.” 

“Well, he can tell you himself,” said Fred dryly. 
“Here he comes.” 

Sure enough, Dane was coming toward them ac¬ 
companied by a tall man who wore a businesslike 
air. Dane quickly introduced his companion as “Mr. 
Forbes of the Great Bend National Bank.” 

“I talked my friend Servais into lettin’ me ride 
your stallion to Great Bend last night,” said Dane 
to Gordon Hughes. “We came up in Mr. Forbes’ 
car this mornin’. I’ll have to go back down there 
an’ get your horse.” 

Hughes looked mystified. “But why didn’t you 
ask me for the horse?” he demanded. 

“Because I’d have had to tell you too much,” 
smiled Dane. “An’ I’m sort of fond of surprises.” 

Mr. Forbes laughed merrily. “And I rather think 
you are in for a surprise, Mr. Hughes,” he said 
in an agreeable voice. 

“I looked everywhere for you,” Dane said hur¬ 
riedly. “Then I figured maybe they’d roped an’ 
tied you an’ drug you off, so we—that is, Mr. 
Forbes—tended to some business for you. Maybe 
I had a lot of crust, an’ I didn’t tell you ’bout it 
ahead of time, for I didn’t know if I could put it 
over. But I didn’t want to see you lose-” 

“Now what’re you talkin’ about?” Hughes inter¬ 
rupted, scowling. 

“He’s trying to tell you that the Great Bend 



NOT ON THE PROGRAM 


293 


National Bank took up your paper at the American 
Bank of Black Butte about an hour ago/’ said 
Forbes, smiling. 

Gordon Hughes stared at the two of them, Dane 
and Forbes, in utter astonishment. 

“And I might add that the Great Bend National 
Bank is prepared to grant you such extension on 
your notes as you may require to market your beef 
cattle,” said Forbes. 

“Mr. Forbes happens to be president of the Great 
Bend National,” Dane put in. 

Gordon Hughes found his tongue at last. “You 
—took up my notes—an’ are goin’ to extend ’em— 
loaned me some sixty thousand dollars without 
waitin’ to see me?” Hughes gave it up. He couldn’t 
understand it. He glared at Dane, suspecting some 
kind of a joke. 

Forbes laughed again, then sobered quickly. “Yes, 
I took ’em up without waiting to see you, or give 
you a chance to say T, yes, or no’—and a mighty 
good thing I did.” 

“Eh, what’s that?” stammered Hughes. 

“A mighty good thing I did,” Forbes repeated. 
“The American Bank hasn’t been operating for 
half an hour. It closed its doors at noon to-day!” 

“Closed?” said Hughes in an awed tone. 

“Yes. I’m surprised the State bank examiner 
didn’t close the American on the strength of its 
September statement. When I gave Mr. Stevens 
our check to-day to cover your notes he decided 
to close while he had a respectable cash showing. 
The depositors will realize something. A continued 


294 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


falling off in deposits and a too speculative policy 
of making loans, many of which are not properly 
secured, was responsible for the failure.” 

“That’s why he was always talking about cash,” 
Hughes reflected. “But I don’t understand how 
you came to do this.” 

“Blame him,” interrupted the Great Bend banker, 
pointing at Dane. “He rode all night and was 
waiting for me this morning when I came to the 
bank. He stated the case and bulldozed me into 
coming up here at once. I happen to know him 
rather well”—he frowned at Dane in mock severity 
—“and I also credit myself with sometimes being 
able to see a good business proposition. Your 
security was excellent, you needed only a short-term 
loan, and you were being pressed for reasons which 
I suspected, and which proved to be correct. That’s 
all of it, except that we will be glad to have your 
business. This north country, I believe, is coming 
back to a stock-raising basis, more or less.” 

Gordon Hughes held out his hand which the 
banker grasped warmly, with a smile to the others. 

The rancher’s face again was smiling and cheer¬ 
ful, as he patted his wife’s shoulder. 

“Oh, yes,” he said suddenly, beaming upon Marie. 
“I got something for you up in Conard. A new 
job! My lawyer says he’s willin’ for you to come 
into his office an’ learn to be a stenograffer!” 

“I don’t reckon she wants to be any stenographer,” 
remarked Fred. 

“Why not?” flared his father. “It’s nice work, 
an’ she’s bright. She’ll learn fast.” 


NOT ON THE PROGRAM 


295 


“Well, I don’t need any stenographer,” said Fre(J 
in a quiet tone. “An’, anyway, I won’t have my 
wife workin’!” he added, putting his arm about 
Marie. 

“Fred!” exclaimed his mother. “What are you 
saying ?” 

“Well, she isn’t my wife yet,” Fred said, looking 
at his father, “but she’s goin’ to be just as soon 
as we can fix her father up in a place where he’ll 
be well taken care of, an’ I can get a check for 
my summer’s wages for a weddin’ trip.” 

Marie moved a bit behind him. Her face was 
the color of roses. 

The other members of the group stared at the 
pair in dawning comprehension. Then the banker 
spoke. 

“They say it’s lucky to be the first to offer con¬ 
gratulations, so-” He shook hands with the two 

of them. 

Then Mrs. Hughes and Esther took the girl into 
their arms, while Gordon Hughes’ eyes kindled, and 
he shook his son by the shoulders. 

“I never figured Fd want to pick a wife for you, 
Fred,” he said soberly. “An’ I’m not goin’ to start 
complainin’ now you’ve picked one out for your¬ 
self.” 

Dane shook hands with Fred, and the banker 
called Hughes aside. 

“I want to talk business with you for about five 
minutes and get your signature on a couple of dotted 
lines,” he said. 

The rancher led him upstairs. 



RIDER O’ THE STARS 


296 

Mrs. Hughes took Marie into the little parlor, and 
Fred turned to Dane. 

“You’re a white man,” he said enthusiastically. 
“I knew you took the stallion for some good reason 

an-” He suddenly remembered. Then he told 

Dane what had happened at the ranch after he left 
for Great Bend. 

Esther saw Dane’s face change. Grim lines took 
the place of the youthful look; anguish shone in 
his eyes. 

“Bunker rode into the river trail,” Fred con¬ 
cluded. “Did you see him?” 

Dane shook his head. “I rode pretty fast, an’ 
it was gettin’ dark,” he said with an effort. “Guess 
he didn’t cross the river.” 

Fred hesitated to say more, struck by Dane’s 
strange tone. Esther couldn’t keep her eyes from 
him, and he didn’t look at them. Buck Colter entered 
and walked over to them. He looked at Dane curi¬ 
ously and hesitated, as he saw the concern in Esther’s 
eyes; then he spoke in a low voice. 

“There’s a bunch of the boys aroun’,” he said to 
Dane meaningly. And then, as Dane looked at him 
quickly: “Bunker’s in town.” 

The silence was broken by Dane’s voice. “Thanks, 
Colter,” he said quietly. 

Gordon Hughes and the banker came down the 
stairs. Hughes was regarding Dane with a strange 
expression in which curiosity, respect, and perplexity 
were commingled. His look sharpened, as he noted 
the attitude of the silent group. Mrs. Hughes, her 



NOT ON THE PROGRAM 


297 

sister, and Marie came out of the other room to 
join them. 

“When did he come in?” Dane asked Colter. 

“Little spell ago,” drawled the cow-puncher. 
“Thought I’d stroll down here an’ tell you. The 
rest of the boys are up at The Palace.” 

‘Til be along shortly,” said Dane. 

Hughes had realized instantly by their tones and 
actions whom they were talking about. He con¬ 
fronted Dane. 

“Don’t go out,” he said earnestly. “It ain’t worth 
it. Nobody’s payin’ any attention to what Bunker 
says, an’ he was drunk yesterday—maybe. We ain’t 
expectin’ you-” 

His words stopped, as he met Dane’s look. 

“I reckon you’re forgettin’ Servais, Gordon,” said 
Dane softly and turned away. 

Fred followed him out. Hughes and the banker 
exchanged glances, and then they, too, went out. 
Esther turned to Marie with a choking cry, and the 
girl gathered her into her arms. 

The dusty street threw the heat of the Indian 
summer sun into Dane’s face, as he walked slowly. 
There were few people about, as nearly all had 
gone out to witness the rodeo contests. Dane kept 
a sharp lookout, although his thoughts were busy. 

He smiled at the impotency of Gordon Hughes’ 
speech. It was kind of Hughes to give him a loop¬ 
hole through which he might avoid meeting Bunker; 
but Bunker hadn’t been drunk when he had said 



298 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


he’d shoot him on sight, and he hadn’t been too 
drunk to shoot the little wrangler, Servais. 

The man’s intense hatred of him had brought him 
to town. He was there for a purpose. Dane knew 
it. The others knew it. Colter had played the 
game when he had come to him with the news at 
once and had subtly conveyed the information that 
the Diamond H men were there to see fair play. 
When he had said the boys were at The Palace 
he had told Dane where Bunker was without saying 
it in so many words. 

Dane knew what was expected of him. He had 
no wish to avoid it. Bunker was a menace—a 
ruthless, merciless killer. To-day, with his infamous 
plans blocked, his villainy disclosed, his vicious na¬ 
ture was given full rein, and he had made the 
meeting an absolute certainty when he had called 
Dane yellow. 

Fred was close behind when Dane reached The 
Palace. Old Marty met him a few paces from the 
entrance. 

“You here, Marty?” asked Dane in surprise. 

“Sh!” cautioned Marty with a finger to his 
lips. “Bunker’s in there waitin’. There ain’t many 
aroun’ ’cept some of our boys an’ a few that’s got 
wise. Ain’t nobody between Bunker an’ the door. 
He’s standin’ at the bar facin’ this way. He ain’t 
drinkin’, either. Now be ready, Dane,” said the 
old man in a voice that trembled. “He knows 
you’re cornin’ and-” 

Dane strode past him, kicked open the swinging 



NOT ON THE PROGRAM 299 

doors, and leaped inside. Then came the roar of 
guns. 

“Servais was the last one!” Dane’s voice rang, 
as the echoes of five shots died away. 

Dane half turned to the left, thrusting his smok¬ 
ing weapon out before him. 

Bunker leaned against the bar, his gun hand 
dropping to his side. His eyes burned red into 
Dane’s. Then a film seemed to shade them, his gun 
clattered to the floor, and he sank down with his 
head upon his chest. 

“He—got him!” breathed old Marty in an awed 
voice. 

Dane staggered back toward the door. Fred 
Hughes caught him in his arms as he was falling. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE DAWN 

B ENCH lands and bottoms were a riot of shim¬ 
mering gold and flaring crimsons. The sear, 
saffron-tinted leaves of the cottonwoods fluttered 
in the breeze and carpeted the space about the 
Diamond H ranch buildings. In the river brakes 
the deeper tones of choke cherries, aspens, willows, 
alders, poplars, and quaking ash showed against the 
enduring green of pines and cedar bushes. The 
mountains were clothed in a deep purple haze and 
crowned by silver minarets which gleamed in the 
sun. 

Dane was sitting in a rocker on the porch enjoy¬ 
ing the warmth of late afternoon. His left shoulder 
was bandaged where his flannel shirt was cut away, 
and his left arm was in a sling—mute evidence of 
the erring course of Bunker’s bullets, aimed at his 
heart. 

Marie was sitting with him. 

“We are goin’ to build a cabeen close by for my 
father,” she was saying. “He will be all right 
where I can keep the eye on heem.” 

“When are you an’ Fred goin’ to get hitched 
up?” asked Dane with an amused smile. 

They had become good friends, these two. 

“Fred say when his father get back from sellin’ 


THE DAWN 


301 


the cattles in Chicago,” said the girl, looking at 
him slyly. “An’ you know hees father he get back 
yesterday.” 

Dane laughed with delight. “Then it ought to 
be right soon,” he chuckled. “Fred’s a fast worker, 
sure enough.” 

“It ees better than be a steneegrefer,” said Marie, 
her eyes sparkling. 

Dane’s hearty laugh brought Esther Hughes to the 
porch. 

“What are you two laughing about, Mr. Brent- 
ley?” 

Dane appeared to scowl darkly, although he 
couldn’t make his eyes work quite to suit his pur¬ 
pose. “You ain’t forgot my first name, have you, 
ma’am ?” 

“No,” said Esther cheerfully; “but I rather like 
to use your last name since father told us what it 
was.” 

“I asked Forbes to keep quiet,” Dane complained; 
“but he had to spill all he knew.” 

“Oh, Mr. Forbes didn’t tell us much,” said 
Esther. “Just that you were fairly respectable, but 
a little wild and needed taming—and settling down.” 

They heard the pur of a motor, and Fred drove 
up with his father in a new car. 

“Ain’t I an old fool, mother?” said Hughes, as 
his wife came out. “I let this young whippersnapper 
talk me into buyin’ him a new automobile for a 
weddin’ present, an’ it can go faster’n the other 
one. There won’t be anything left when he smashes 
this one.” 


3 02 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


Fred looked cheerfully at Marie, as she came down 
the steps to inspect the new car. Hughes took the 
chair she vacated and sat down next to Dane. 

“I stopped in at the county seat,” he said. “Your 
man has told what he knew. Marie’s father shot 
Williams all- right, an’ I don’t know as I blame him. 
Anyway there won’t be anything done about it. 
Bunker was doin’ the rustlin’ on his own hook. 
Rung in a bunch of his kind as hands over at the 
Flyin’ W. But Williams was behind the stampede. 
Wanted to get my cattle cheap, an’ the banker 
wanted cash quick. Hand in glove, the two of ’em, 
I ’spect. Guess Stevens was sore at me, too, because 
I talked right up at him.” 

He looked about at the circle of faces and grinned 
broadly. 

“An’ now Williams wants to sell out,” he an¬ 
nounced. “Don’t want any law called in, an’ that 
suits me. Told me himself to put the fence on the 
strip where I wanted it. Maybe we’ll get some 
decent neighbors now, for the Flyin’ W won’t be 
hard to sell.” 

This news was the main topic of conversation 
at the supper table. Dane asked Gordon Hughes 
many questions of a business nature concerning stock 
raising in that vicinity, and the rancher was pleased 
with his knowledge. 

“I reckon you’d make me a good foreman,” he 
said to Dane. 

Dane Brentley shook his head. “Guess you’ll 
have to train Fred for that job,” he said. 


THE DAWN 


303 


“You ain’t thinkin’ of moving on?” asked Hughes 
in a tone of disappointment. 

“Well, that’ll depend,” drawled Dane, looking curi¬ 
ously at Esther Hughes. 

The girl lowered her gaze, confused; then looked 
at him defiantly. 

Marie giggled in sheer delight, and, as Esther 
glanced at her with elevated brows, the whole com¬ 
pany laughed, Gordon Hughes loudest of all. Dane, 
however, did not laugh, and he thought Esther 
looked gratefully for a moment in his direction. 

But after supper Gordon Hughes approached Dane 
seriously in the living room. 

“I’d kind of hate to see you leavin’ for other 
parts,” he said in a very kindly manner. “I didn’t 
have to be told by Forbes that you come of good, 
sound, Western stock. I spotted you the very first 
time we met—the day we was countin’ the cattle 
in the bottoms—an’ I didn’t lose confidence even 
when things was breakin’ the worst. I reckon we 
sort of understood each other, an’ I think we under¬ 
stand each other now.” 

He gripped Dane’s hand, and Dane saw the same 
queer, baffling light in the rancher’s eyes which he 
had noted once before. This time, however, he 
merely smiled and his answer was forestalled by the 
entrance of others into the room. 

Five days passed, days of glorious Indian sum¬ 
mer, which is at its best in the altitudes of Montana’s 
north prairie country. Dane and Fred took several 
mysterious trips in the new car, and for two whole 
days were absent, returning in a car coated with 


304 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


dust, as if it had covered many miles. Fred brought 
back a ring for Marie and said he had bought it 
in Great Bend, the plains metropolis far to south¬ 
ward. Gordon Hughes appeared interested, but 
asked no questions. 

And then one night Dane and Esther Hughes 
were sitting on the porch, looking at the stars and 
the gaunt branches of the cottonwoods weaving in 
the cool wind, talking sparingly of trivial things. 

“Em wonderin’ what you think of me as a gun¬ 
man by now,” said Dane suddenly, during a lull in 
their conversation. 

“Don’t be silly,” replied the girl. “Father told 
me he never hired you in any such capacity, and 
after I saw what kind of a man Bunker was, and 
what he did to Servais—-well, you know I was born 
in the West, Dane.” 

“I’ve always been foolin’ roun’ with a shootin’ 
iron, seems like,” said Dane whimsically. “Sort of 
took to it when I was a kid. I can’t remember my 
mother, an’ I was thrown in with the men pretty 
young, seems like. When dad died, an’ I sold our 
ranch, I guess I drifted with the crowd.” 

“But why didn’t you tell us who you were?” 
asked Esther, puzzled. “It would have made things 
easier.” 

“That’s just it,” said Dane. “It would have made 
it too easy. I’d rather fight against odds than fight 
with ’em, I reckon. An’ I’ve had a kid notion about 
bein’ mysterious. The stars, or the wind, or the 
sky, or something has made me like to keep folks 
guessin’!” He laughed softly. 


THE DAWN . 305 

“I’ve been sorry I mistrusted you,” said Esther 
dreamily. 

'‘Well, I wanted you to do that,” he said to her 
surprise. “Makes a better understandin’ sort of, 
when things are straightened out.” 

She looked at him in the dim light of the stars. 
His eyes were sparkling, and she turned her head 
away. Again she remembered what Marie had said 
about a man’s eyes. Marie was not a fool! 

“Where are you going from here?” she asked, 
and she was astonished that she had put the question. 

“Why, I’ve been scoutin’ around lookin’ for a 
location,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ve got a little in 
the bank, an’ Forbes down at Great Bend says he 
might be persuaded to take a chance on me if I 
settled down, like you mentioned. An’ I know a few 
about the cattle business.” He rose and stood close 
to her chair. 

“Esther,” he said softly, “do you reckon you 
could live on the Flyin’ W?” 

She did not look at him. “Why do you ask such 
a thing as that?” she queried in a voice so low he 
could scarcely hear her. 

“I was thinkin’ pretty strong of buy in’ the Flyin’ 
W,” he answered. “Don’t you think you could 
sort of get along with me over there—Esther?” 

And then she looked up at him with shining eyes. 
“With you and the stars, Dane,” she whispered. 

In a moment he had dropped beside her; his right 
arm closed about her shoulders, and he found her 
lips. 

And while the wind played a symphony in the 


3°6 


RIDER O’ THE STARS 


waving branches of the cottonwoods, he told her 
the story that’s as old as the buffalo trails that still 
leave the imprint of the years on that vast, open 
land bounded by the skies. 

“Beg pardon!” 

They rose in confusion. Dane was scowling, and 
Esther was flushed and sparkling, holding to Dane’s 
good arm. 

“Just happened to be walkin’ by an’ wanted to say 
I expected you two’d wake up one of these days, 
an’—it’ll suit the hull outfit to a T!” 

It was old Marty, standing below the steps, his 
hat in his hand, the light of the rising moon silver¬ 
ing his hair and showing his wrinkled face wreathed 
in smiles. 

THE END 


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